


Rival Poet

by Mama_Nihil



Category: British Writer RPF, Historical RPF, Shakespeare RPF | Elizabethan & Jacobean Theater RPF
Genre: Angst, Attempt at Historical Accuracy, BUT modern dialogue, But if you love anything Shakespeare and want a full length novel you've come to the right place, Historical, If you're here for angst you'll have to wade through history to get it, If you're here for smut you may get too little, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Novel, Slow Burn, The marriage of true minds, Theatre, a very serious attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 10:49:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 100,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15071609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mama_Nihil/pseuds/Mama_Nihil
Summary: Even a genius can be a fool in love.When young Will Shaksper arrives in London to peddle his poems, he has no idea what he’s in for. Meaning to stay for just a few days, he’s thrown completely off course when he meets Kit Marlowe. Charismatic and dangerous, this wunderkind of verse takes an eager interest in the newcomer. Before Will knows it, their shared passion for poetry has transformed into an attraction as irresistible as it is forbidden.Because this is the sixteenth century. Love between men isn’t just frowned on, it can lead to the gallows. When Kit is called away on a state mission, Will does his best to suppress the feelings he doesn’t even have a name for.But how can he write when his muse is gone? Why does Kit keep disappearing? And what’s the awful secret that makes his eyes echo with a lifetime of pain?Author's note: Oh, and maybe I should mention: this is also a published novel (mine, never fear!), but I don't know... I wanted it here, because it's the fan fiction to end all my others. Such a labour of love.





	1. Prologue: 1616

“So… you did it, old man.”

“Huh?” Will looked up from his mug of ale. Outside, the bell of the Guild Chapel could be heard tolling twelve: it was the twenty-third.

Richard held up his beer for a toast, balancing the clay mug on a wobbly hand. “You made it through another twenty-three years.” He smiled pointedly.

Will averted his eyes. Yes. His promise was fulfilled now. Twenty-three years… had it really been that long?

“Happy birthday then.” Richard clanged his mug against Will’s and gulped back the contents. His unshaven chin and moth-eaten, nineties style doublet made him look like the vagrant he supposedly was, but he was also the best friend anyone could ask for. Deciding to make an effort, Will lifted an aching hand to grab one last swig, but instead his fingers cramped and swept the mug right off the tavern table. It fell to the floor and shattered, pieces flying in all directions.

Jack laughed, the sudden motion almost making his head slip from the weak support of his hand. Richard joined him, and they triggered each other until they were cackling hysterically, holding their stomachs and leaning on the table for support. Will smiled wanly, but he couldn’t laugh. It might look funny, but that hand had been his enemy his whole life.

Jack cleared his throat of a final chuckle and slapped Will on the back. “The w-way you’re looking, W-will, maybe we should say ‘happy dirthday’ instead!”

Will winced. “Why don’t you leave the wordplay to the professionals and stick to your area of expertise, Jack?”

Jack looked peeved. “And w-what would that be?”

Richard and Will exchanged glances. “The tab!” Richard burst out and collapsed once again in a heap of mirth.

“Very funny.” Jack pursed his lips. “The company w-wouldn’t have lasted a day w-without my business sense. Besides, not taking care of simple matters like the tab can have dire consequences. You of all people should know that.”

Jack’s gaze skewered Will like a twelve-penny dagger. Straightening up, he pushed a few strands of thinning hair out of his face and wiped his nose. So Jack had heard the official story, the one about the tavern bill quarrel? Well, let him think he knew the truth. Let him live in ignorant bliss, without names like Poley and Walsingham and Frizer making every night a living hell.

“Jack’s right,” Richard said. “You do look positively doleful.”

Will shrugged. “I just miss… London. You know?”

Richard shot him a sharp look, and Will averted his eyes. He hadn’t meant his voice to sound like that.

“You should be glad you’re not in London,” Richard muttered. “Stratford’s a paradise compared to that cesspit.”

Will frowned at the table. They both knew what they were really talking about, of course, but Jack didn’t. He only knew that Will had had a best friend once, but for the rest, they’d managed to keep him in the dark.

Throwing a glance at him, Richard said, “I mean it, you know. You’re better off here, where you don’t have to see the decline of everything we worked for. In our day, you’ll remember, the theatre business was run by theatre people, who understood the trade. Now everything’s in the hands of money-grabbers. No offence, Jack.”

Jack waved a hand. “None taken.”

“If a play flops, if a single measly play doesn’t fill the house, they don’t buy another one from that author. Which means that the real talent, the people who actually have something to say, never reach an audience. Imagine what would have happened if you’d only had one chance to make it. I mean, let’s face it. _Henry VI_?”

Will feigned a grin. “Ha, ha.”

“So all I’m saying is, you’re better off here with your memories of happier days.”

Richard knocked back the rest of his beer. Will looked out of the window, into the blackness beyond. Happier days…

They hadn’t been happy. They’d never been _happy_. Moving to London had cut him in half. He’d only been twenty-three years old at the time, a young fool who thought he had nothing to lose.

Nothing but his heart. Never to get it back, buried as it was in an unnamed grave in the suburbs.

He shook his head. Richard was right. No sane man should still be yearning for that dirty, moral sinkhole of a city. It had ruined him. Sometimes he wished he’d never gone there.

But who would he be if he hadn’t? Over the years, London had become a part of him. Those narrow, filthy streets; the taverns and bear-baiting rings; the swampy, oozing grounds around the Globe; the brawls, the swords, and the flashy costumes; the whores and the bawds and the music; the rancid scent of frying fish, the clamorous cries from vendors of quails and dates and tangerines; the lapping of the filthy Thames against the embankment, the sun glinting off London Bridge.

The roar of the waters underneath, where Kit had almost got him killed.

He wasn’t aware of rubbing his temples until Richard laid a hand on his shoulder and gazed at him with those patient spaniel eyes of his. “How are you, Will?”

He meant it. He really wanted to know. But how could Will bring himself to answer it truthfully, when all he wanted from this evening was a bit of fun, a holiday, a break in the humdrum?

“Fine,” he said. And, determined to make the words true, he reached for his mug. Surprised to find it gone, he grasped at recent events, trying to piece them together into some kind of coherent whole. Oh yeah, it was on the floor. In pieces. He snorted wearily. Like the mirror in _Richard II_. Like his own mind.

“Honestly, that’s the last time I let you in here!”

Startled, they all looked up. The hostess was standing in the doorway, her hair in sleepy plaits beneath her nightcap. Will spread his hands in a gesture of remorse, but the effect was rather sabotaged by Richard’s helpless sniggering. The hostess shot him a withering look.

“We’ve been closed for four hours. You think you can do what you like just because you’re the father-in-law, but there are limits.” She got down on her knees, trying to salvage the shards of crockery. “You’re supposed to be fifty-two years old now, for God’s sake!”

Will stood up, swaying just a tiny bit. “Alright, alright. We’re going! Jesus, calm down…”

He motioned at his friends to follow, and the hostess rolled her eyes as they stepped outside. Despite his inebriation, Jack seemed to notice the change in temperature and hugged himself in vague dismay. The residual warmth from the evening’s fire had made the tavern cosy and pleasant, and the chill of the night air was a rude surprise.

“Stratford hospitality,” Richard muttered, peering through the darkness, trying to remember which way was Chapel Street. Despite his forty year friendship with Will, he'd hardly ever visited Stratford, and he only partly knew his way around. Looking up into the sky instead, he smiled. “ _We have seen the stars at midnight…_ ”

Will chuckled wearily. “Yeah…”

But it was only a quote. It wasn’t Richard he’d stayed up with late into the night, renaming the constellations and planning the take-over of the world.

Taking a deep breath, he looked up too. The vault was sprinkled with tiny lights. Beautiful. It reminded him of something. Something distant, half-forgotten but still smarting, an old wound that refused to heal. A country manor, far away from the bustle and smoke of the capital, away from prying eyes. A house for poetry and lovers, for sweat and lips and and hair and skin…

As he stared at the spangled sky, a kind of dizziness gripped him. He stumbled and caught hold of a rain-slick doorpost. Was he that drunk? Richard stepped forward to steady him. “But how many stars can one heaven hold?” Will slurred, only half aware what he was saying.

“More than you can count,” Richard replied in a no-nonsense, let’s-leave-the-philosophy-out-of-this tone. “Now come on. Time to go. You know, you really are too old to flout the curfew.”

Will resisted Richard’s attempt to pull him away. “But there can only be one polestar…”

“And that would be you.” Richard laid Will’s arm firmly around his own neck and moved him forward.

“A Poley star…” Will frowned as he stumbled along the sidewalk, alcohol clouding his thinking, making it difficult to hold on to the thought that seemed so important but threatened to slip away at any moment. “No, no… I was always eclipsed…”

“False modesty doesn’t become you, Will. Go on, take a step forward, there’s a good lad.”

“The bastard…”

“Yes, yes, he was an ass. Now let’s get you home.”

A sudden urge to weep came over Will and he slumped against Richard’s shoulder. “Twenty-three years…”

Richard’s hold on him tightened. “Look… just take one more step, Will,” he urged, voice worried now. “We’re almost there.”

Will shook his head, sighed and moved a foot forward, but stepped on nothingness. His legs gave way and he fell to his knees. “Whoops…”

“Jesus, he hardly knows who he is,” Jack laughed. 

Will opened his mouth to object, but even in his intoxicated state, he knew it was true. The trappings that defined him – religion, relationships, profession – were muddled, wavering. Things changed. Incessantly. Having been was not the same as being. Every day he had to reinvent himself or he would slip into oblivion. He was no longer a King’s Man, nor could he in all honesty call himself a poet anymore.

What, then, was he? What was really left of him, now that his accomplishments had been stripped from him like so many costumes? Nothing and no one.

Because half of him was gone.

Just then, something caught his eye. Looking up, he saw a dark shape further down the street. _It’s him!_ his brain screamed, but of course it wasn’t him. It was probably just a vagrant, hiding in the shadows for fear of being arrested. But Will couldn’t shake the feeling of déjà vu: something about the figure was eerily familiar. Maybe it was Goodman Quiney, summoned by the hostess to see his father-in-law home? Or that other son of a bitch, what was his name? Doctor Hall. Or Collins the lawyer, come to nag him about the will?

But no. None of them had that wary look, that fear of being seen. It was someone else – someone from Will’s past. He shivered in irrational panic. Perhaps it was Poley, come at last to punish him for a crime that should be forgotten by now?

“Come on,” Richard urged, unaware that someone was following them. With one last glance over his shoulder, Will hurried up the street. Despite the darkness, he knew there was something in the stalker’s hand. Something white – like papers. _My plays, risen from the ashes like the Phoenix?_ He shook his head, confused. Why would someone have Will’s plays with him? They’d burned in the Globe fire and were no more.

“Alright,” Richard said as they neared the house, “Jack, will you hold the door open so I can get this tosser over the threshold?”

Grinning drunkenly, Jack obeyed, and Will stumbled inside. The heat from the covered fire hit his face, and the creaking sound of the floorboards welcomed him home. Safe at last. Barricaded against whatever ghosts were out there.

And at once he knew. It must be Death itself, come to get him. They’d joked about it at the tavern, but it was the only explanation: he’d fulfilled his promise, and he was free to go. Almost weeping at the thought, he felt the dark come up to swallow him. _Finally_ , he sighed to himself. _I’m coming to you._


	2. 1587

The door swung open with an ominous squeal. Will took a deep breath – and almost choked on the thick smell of ink. Swaying on his feet, he caught himself on a table. Jesus. The door creaked shut behind him and he was hoodwinked. Through the gloom, his ears picked up banging noises from the printing room at the back. When his eyes adjusted to the shadows, he could see employees scurrying to and fro, carrying out their master’s orders.

Master Dick Field.

Suddenly nauseous, Will pretended to peruse the wares by the door. His stomach clenched as the thought took hold: he shouldn’t have come. Three days of drizzly riding, and for what? What business did he have with his childhood tormentor? He might as well have stridden up to Whitehall itself and demanded an audience with the Queen.

But in his satchel, his poems lay waiting, and he owed them this. Besides, Dick was a different person nowadays. Had to be.

Resolved not to be a coward, Will was just about to walk into the shop, when a familiar voice spoke up behind him. “May I help you?”

He turned. From a cute child, Dick had grown into a handsome man. He was twenty-six now, three years older than Will, and every shred of baby fat was gone from his chiselled features. Will’s heart sank in the face of such undeserved beauty, such a deceptive front.

“Oh my Lord, it’s Willie!” Dick’s hand flew up to his mouth. “What an absolutely delightful surprise.” He clasped Will’s hand and smiled and smiled as if nothing bad had ever happened between them. “Looking for anything in particular? Come on in, make yourself at home! Have you eaten? No, don’t be shy, you’ll manage something. Jaqueline is dressing the goose as we speak.”

Disoriented, Will was aware of Dick’s hand on his elbow, nudging him towards the back of the shop. Sudden discomfort gripped him. “Actually, I thought I’d catch a play,” he blurted the first thing he could think of to get him off the hook.

“What’s that? Catch the plague?” Dick laughed heartily, but let go of his arm. “Well, don’t expect me to join you in that pit of death.”

“Yeah, I thought I’d check out the local brand of depravity,” Will replied tartly, his wits only slowly returning. This was familiar ground. He could engage in a war of words anytime.

“Oh, then you’re in luck,” Dick said, pleasant smile unwavering. “ _Tamburlaine_ is showing at the Rose. You won’t find anything more depraved than that.”

Despite himself, Will was intrigued. “Tam… what?”

Dick looked amused. “Please don’t tell me you haven’t heard of _Tamburlaine_. Even in the backwaters of Warwickshire the name must have some éclat.” When Will hesitated, Dick smiled condescendingly. “It’s another blood and guts affair copied off the ancients. Marlowe, his name is. Fancies himself a modern-day Seneca.” He scoffed. “Complete lunatic, apparently, but a wizard with a quill. I mean, according to those who go for that sort of thing.”

“So… this play, Tam…”

“ _Tamburlaine_.”

“ _Tamburlaine_.” The word stung on Will’s tongue like an exotic new spice. “It’s a hit?”

Dick pursed his lips. “It’s been performed twenty times.”

“That’s good?”

“Unheard of.”

“Have you seen it?”

Dick snorted. “Certainly not. You think I’d tarnish my good name by frequenting such a place?”

Will bit down on a retort. He was here to talk business, not entangle himself in a meaningless debate about the morals of the theatre world. Trying for a joking tone, he said, “Would you tarnish your good name by printing some Warwickshire poetry, then?”

“Oh, him.” Dick made a face. “He’s already tried. Wasn’t good enough.”

Will frowned. “Excuse me?”

Dick sighed impatiently. “I need to uphold a certain standard, or the reputation of this printing house will be sullied. I suppose you’re talking about Michael Drayton?”

Will had no idea who Michael Drayton was. “I… I was talking about me.”

Dick’s jaw fell. A couple of hour-long moments passed. Then he breathed, “You… write?”

Not trusting his voice to carry, Will just nodded. What with his gimp hand, he could see how Dick would find the news surprising. But didn’t he remember _Arachne_?

“Well…” Dick fumbled, at a rare loss for words. “I’d… I’d love to have a look at your… um, efforts. Well, me and my fiancée, of course.”

Will grimaced. Fiancée indeed. So he was planning to marry the printer’s widow? Well, he would believe that when he saw it. Dick had been betrothed before.

But that was none of Will’s business. He was here to offer his poems, nothing else. Resolved again, he slipped his hand into his satchel. But as he rummaged around for the sheets, his fingers nudged something else: the book. Pausing, he was once again overcome with doubt. How could he think Dick had any interest in his amateurish work? Back when Dick’s master was still alive, the printing-house had rejected even this – a luminous translation of Ovid’s _Amores_. Will had only got his hands on the manuscript because Dick had sent it home to his father as a trophy: his first independent product as an apprentice. In the end, it was deemed too salacious even for the London audience, and the text had never hit the market.

Instead it had found a home with Will. During the months that followed, the rejected poet had subtly invaded Will’s mind. Had sucked him in, pulled him under, his words merging with Will’s own to beget new worlds of unknown joy. By now Will knew the book by heart, of course, but he had brought it with him to London as a kind of lucky charm.

As if bringing the superior work of the aptly named Merlin to this spectacle of shame could bring any luck.

Grimacing to himself, Will hurriedly grabbed his own poems. “I’ve experimented with the sonnet form,” he said, voice nervous and flat like that of a schoolboy reading from a book. “And, um, there’s also a longer, epic poem that was once a play. About Arachne…”

Dick’s eyes narrowed. But when he spoke, he didn’t mention his own notorious performance in that very play. Instead he muttered, “Interesting choice of subject matter.”

Will clenched his teeth. Dick was right: the story of a lowly country girl challenging a goddess wasn’t the most uncontroversial topic just now. Not even a year had passed since Mary Queen of Scots was executed. But the story ended with a resounding triumph for the goddess Minerva, which Dick should well know.

Frowning at the pile of poems, Dick breathed in as if for a sermon. “Let me give you some advice.” He leaned in close and went on in a conspiratorial hiss, “Catholics are tolerated nowadays, but keep your head down and your texts clean. For both our sakes.”

“I’m not–”

“In this brave new world, we’re all friends, you see. Only high treason will land you in the Tower. But too much license, and–” He drew his index finger across his throat. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Will swallowed down anger and once again held out his pile of sheets. They suddenly seemed dirty, somehow, as if the mere prospect of Dick’s touch sullied them. “Would you mind… uh, having a look at them?”

Dick glanced down. His nostrils quivered momentarily. Then he shrugged and took the sheets. Looking up at Will again, he raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to stand there while I read?”

“If it’s fine with you? I don’t like baring my heart from a distance.”

It was a stupid thing to say to his childhood tormentor, but Dick didn’t seem to realise. He just brought the pile up to his eyes and pursed his lips. Watching him read, Will felt his throat close and his pulse quicken. He shouldn’t have come here. What had he been thinking?

He pulled at his collar. It was too tight. He couldn’t breathe.

***

_The rope cut into his throat. Not tightly enough to choke him, but not loosely either. Dick took a step back and surveyed his work. “So, Willie… you going to tell Master Jenkins about this, then?”_

__

__

_Will tried to shake his head, but stopped when the rope chafed at his neck._

__

_“That’s right, because I know for a fact that our teacher hasn’t been to church for… what is it, six Sundays in a row? Naughty, naughty…” Dick laughed. His minions joined in. “If you think that godless man will help you, you’re in for a disappointment.”_

__

_Will’s mind was racing too fast. He was tied to a tree and couldn’t move, so his only way out of this was through words. But what words? What could he say that would melt the stony heart of the tanner’s son?_

__

_Blurting the first thing he could think of, he said, “I’m not like Master Jenkins.” The words hurt his throat. “I’m not a recusant.”_

__

_At once, Dick’s eyes narrowed. With a sickening twist of the stomach, Will knew that he had made a mistake, but it was too late to take it back._

__

_“You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you? Re-cu-sant. Wow. Good boy, to know such fancy words. Just like Master Jenkins. You’d make a lovely couple, you would.”_

__

_Dick’s fist landed in Will’s belly. Completely unprepared for the blow, Will’s bound body tried to double over, and his spine slammed into the tree trunk._

__

__

_“Well, we can’t have men marrying boys in a proper God-fearing town like Stratford,” Dick sighed, feigning remorse. “Sodomy is a capital offence, you know. We’ll just have to hang, draw and quarter you. So tell me, Willie, before you die…” Dick took his deformed hand and caressed it almost lovingly. “Do you think Master Jenkins will cry when his star pupil is gone?” He lowered his voice to a raucous whisper. “Or do you think he’ll be relieved?”_

***

Shivering, Will pushed the memory away. That was ten years ago. They had both been children, and boys would be boys. He shouldn’t even remember such a banal event.

Dick was still reading. As he scanned the Arachne poem, his blue eyes seemed to darken. Heart in his throat, Will wasn’t aware of holding his breath until Dick looked up with a vacant expression. Unable to stand the silence, Will forced out a trembling, “What?”

“I, uh…” Dick hesitated, seemingly confused. “You know, I may not have given you enough credit when we were young.” He frowned and waved a hand as if to erase what he had just said. “I mean, I always knew you were… you know. Despite your hand. Master Jenkins certainly seemed to think so.”

Will’s scalp prickled. Master Jenkins? Why did Dick come to think of their old teacher right now? Will’s hand cramped, and he hurriedly hid it behind his back. It clenched against his jerkin like a wounded bird, while he swallowed and swallowed and waited for Dick to come to some sort of conclusion.

A moment went by, and another. Then Dick sighed. “Yes. Well. Anyway… it would seem that we’re now on the same side.” He pulled himself together and flashed Will a winning smile. “I have a printing shop, you have a manuscript. Together we can lay London at our feet. That is, if you accept my offer.”

He held out his hand in a perfect imitation of friendship. Still submerged in his maelstrom of memories, Will saw his own hand reach out and take it. The age-old symbol of a sealed deal brought a genuine smile to the printer’s face.

“I’m glad you came to me.”

***

Keeping a pace brisk with pent-up emotion, Will walked away from the Blackfriars area and the looming shadow of the cathedral. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he was moving, trying to chase this crazy, boisterous feeling from his blood. Only after several hundred yards could he breathe freely again. What in all Creation had just happened? Dick had almost seemed impatient for Will to leave, so that he could be alone with his words.

He wanted to print his poems!

Or maybe it was just his imagination. Wishful thinking. And yet Will knew beyond a doubt that something in those papers had touched his old antagonist as surely as _Amores_ had touched Will. He let out a stunned laugh, and a passing woman gave him a strange look. But he couldn’t stop a wide grin from pulling at his lips. He had gone into the lion’s den and survived. After ten years of feeling inferior, he had won Dick over.

Inconceivable.

As he stood there, just trying to breathe, a movement caught his eye. To his right, over on the other side of the Thames, a flag was flying over a large building. For a moment, he just watched it flutter and beckon like a bride’s veil in the wind. A flower was painted on the bright white cloth. _Tamburlaine is showing at the Rose_ , Dick’s voice echoed in his mind, and Will’s chest seemed to expand to breaking point. A sense of freedom crept up his spine, a feeling of shackles falling away – as if he had finally come of age, two years after the fact. He was alone in the city, he had done his irksome errand, and his prospects appeared unexpectedly good. There was no one to tell him what to do with the rest of his day. He could do whatever he wanted.

And there was no question what that was.

Heart speeding up, he took a right turn and made for London Bridge. Two o’clock, Dick had said. Trumpets were already blaring at the heavens, calling the parishioners together for the blasphemous mass about to start.

 _Tamburlaine_.

The name shimmered in him like the air above a hot summer road, and the only thing standing in his way was this crowded, chaotic excuse for a bridge. It looked impossible to cross, but he had to. This was his one chance to see a real play, at a real playhouse.

Dodging cows and sheep, he elbowed his way through the throng, eyes riveted on the siren flag on the horizon. He had to trample toes and almost shove people aside to push through. The immense bridge was more a city in its own right than a mere crossing. Shops and stalls and even houses cluttered it; the roaring of the water beneath could hardly be heard above the din from the people milling about.

Nearing the other side, Will shuddered to glimpse the decaying heads on the gatehouse turrets. Their unseeing eyes stared out at inborn Londoners and visitors alike, warning them to keep their mouths shut and their hands clasped in Protestant prayer. On the walls below them, posters announced _The Second Part of the Bloody Conquests of Mighty Tamburlaine_ , starring the famous Edward Alleyne. If the executed traitors had their tongues, would they speak out against that, too?

“You want tickets?”

Will turned to see a toothless old man holding a piece of paper. “How did you know?”

“Hah! Well, you’re in the business long enough, you learn a thing or two,” the man grinned. “And you, Sir, look like a discerning gentleman about to embark on a wonderful adventure of the mind. This, my friend, is the ticket to that voyage. Only two pence stand between you and utter bliss.”

Will laughed at the flamboyant expression, but opened his purse and picked up the coins.

“Much obliged, my friend, there you go. Enjoy yourself, now!” The man touched his tattered hat and disappeared. At that moment the doors of the playhouse opened, and the crowd surged towards it with Will in their midst. On the threshold, a guard demanded money.

“Oh, I already paid.” Will held up his ticket.

The guard barely glanced at it. “We don’t use tickets.” He rattled a clay box. “You were swindled.”

“But I just spoke to that man…” Will turned around, but of course the toothless joker was gone. “What the…”

“Don’t worry, it happens to everyone. A penny, please.”

“Another one?”

“If you want to hear the play.”

Cursing, Will poked around in his purse, glancing around for the swindler.

“You can stop looking,” the guard grinned. “Now you know. Don’t go making a fool of yourself next time.”

Will vowed that he wouldn’t.

The wave of expectant playgoers pressed forward and Will was carried a few feet before he regained his footing. A vendor offering oranges at the top of his lungs passed by and almost deafened him. Holding on tight to his purse, Will fought his way to the front. He was jostled and spat at, but this was his first time at a real playhouse in London, and he was not about to be cheated of the experience by keeping shyly to the shadows. He didn’t want to miss a thing.

Despite the nipping November cold, the place soon heated up from the wealth of bodies packed together. Everyone breathed one another’s putrid air – the stench was unbelievable. Occasionally a refreshing breeze from the gallery brought with it a smell of expensive perfumes, and Will looked up to see the finer folk in their silks and their ruffs, sneering at the rabble below. Each and every one of them seemed to have a clay pipe in their mouths, and they all had more or less ridiculous hairstyles. _Nobles_ , Will thought giddily. _Real nobles._

The doors at the back of the playhouse closed with a bang. An excited hush fell over the audience and a prologue stepped out on the stage.

“ _The general welcomes Tamburlaine receiv’d,_  
_When he arrived last upon the stage,_  
_Have made our poet pen his Second Part,_  
_Where Death cuts off the progress of his pomp,_  
_And murderous Fates throw all his triumphs down._ ”

Will’s heart skipped a beat at the bold beginning. He hardly dared breathe. Why was the ending revealed so early? Wouldn’t that make the audience lose interest?

But as he listened, the illusion grabbed hold. It should be ridiculous – all that hyperbole and exaggerated passion – but it worked. He had seen plays before, of course, mostly mysteries commissioned by the church. But compared to them, this was like fireworks to the dying embers of a fire. The words strode with a natural majesty through the verse, resounded with a confidence that had no parallel in the English tongue. To find its equivalent, you had to go back to the ancient Romans, to Ovid and Virgil.

When Tamburlaine came onstage, there was a surge of spontaneous applause that quickly died as he put up a hand and opened his mouth to speak. A voice, husky and intense at once, flowed from his throat. “ _Now, bright Zenocrate, the world’s fair eye, whose beams illuminate the lamps of heaven…_ ”

The strange beauty of the London accent coupled with the free-flowing verse combined to stun Will out of his wits. The actor was a golden deity, come down from Olympus to bless the maggots of London with his presence. The princely protagonist swaggered across his kingdom on the boards, flashing smiles at the ladies in the galleries and the pit alike. His fights were graceful dances, his sword a bolt of lightning. He went into the fray fearless like a lion, baring his teeth and daring his enemies to single combat until his shirt was no longer white and the wet fabric clung to his muscular torso like a second skin. Compared to the clumsy contraptions used by the touring companies, this was like… well, like…

There was nothing to compare it to, but reality.

When the onstage war was over, the governor of Babylon was hung in chains from a wall, and Tamburlaine gave the order to shoot. Will rose on his toes, straining to see, to discover the secret behind the illusion: how did you impersonate such a death? What dazzling magic trick this time?

But the man aiming at the governor suddenly veered away. When the musket discharged, his face was a rictus of terror. There was a commotion a few yards away, and Will realised that the actors had stopped acting: they just stood staring into the pit where people had started screaming. Someone was lying on the ground, fainted no doubt. No… wait a minute – there was blood!

“My God…” The actor who had just recently been Theridamas dropped the musket and covered his mouth. A young spear-carrier jumped down among the confused playgoers and started shouting for help. The actor on the wall fought wildly against his chains, but nobody seemed to notice except Will. After just a moment’s hesitation, he jumped onto the stage, and in his rush to reach the actor, he almost tripped over the musket.

“Are you hurt?” he panted, pulling at the chains with cramping hands, but the actor didn’t seem to hear him. He just yanked at his shackles, panic distorting his painted face. Will took hold of his fingers and squeezed them together to force them through the manacles. Somehow the man came loose and fell to the floor, where he slumped like a dead rabbit. “Come on!”

Will helped him to his feet and made straight for the tiring-house and exited through the back door. Across the street, there was a tavern, and Will sat the actor in a chair and put a mug of beer before him. People around them were staring, and Will could see why. Pulling his shirt down over his hand, he started to wipe the governor of Babylon from the actor’s face, but he shied away.

“I… I can do it,” he muttered and produced a handkerchief from his sleeve. As the colour came off, a peculiar feeling of déjà vu crept upon Will. There was something definitely familiar about the stranger, about his long nose and straight eyebrows. Although the actor was no Stratford man, Will had the feeling that he had first seen him in Warwickshire.

“William Shaksper,” he introduced himself.

The man before him was silent for a long time, perhaps striving to collect his wits. Then he breathed a deep sigh. “Richard Burbage.”

Will frowned. Burbage? The name was familiar.

Richard looked up. “Hey…” he began.

“Have we met?”

“We have, haven’t we?”

They sized each other up for a few moments. Then Richard gasped. “The glover’s son!” He laughed. “You’re the whining brat from Stratford.”

Will’s eyes widened. “You were in that touring company last summer… we had a drink at the Swan!” They stared at each other, uncertain of how to interpret this coincidence. “But then… you’re young!” Will finally blurted.

Richard blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“But on stage… you bore yourself with such dignity! It’s amazing, I would have pegged you for a thirty-five-year-old at least. But you can’t be more than…”

Richard grinned into his mug. “Nineteen.”

“Nineteen…” Will shook his head. “Jesus… you should have a real role. Something to show off your true talent.”

A sardonic grimace tugged at Richard’s mouth. “Whoever put those bullets in the musket doesn’t think so.”

Will gestured wildly. “You’re better than Edward Alleyne!”

“Thank you for attempting such a gross lie just to cheer me up,” Richard laughed. “I suppose you must be a fan if you travelled all the way from Warwickshire just to see me perform, eh?” Chuckling, he lifted the beer and took a first swig. A contented smile spread on his face. “Ah… I do love my mad dog.” He closed his eyes briefly, lost in some inner space. Then he sighed, sat up straight and turned to Will again. “So what did you think of the play? I mean, the parts you got to see.”

“Oh…” Will had been prepared to comfort the poor man for almost dying just now, not to review the performance. But at the mere mention of it, his lips pulled apart in a reluctant smile. “It was… fine,” he tried to downplay it. “Very beautiful poetry…”

Of course, ‘beautiful’ didn’t begin to describe it. Normally the feet of any verse were either subtle or laid on with a trowel – but this Marlowe fellow was completely different. His voice had pounded like a hot pulse through Will’s body.

Richard watched him squirm for a moment and then chuckled. “Let me guess. You’re in London to try your luck among the publishing houses.”

Will looked up in shock. “It’s that obvious?”

“You’re an open book, my friend, easy to read for a man who’s made the study of human nature his profession.” At Will’s dumbfounded entreaty, Richard explained – and seemed to relish doing so. “Your unkempt hair, your awe at Marlowe’s language, the way you clutch that satchel as though it contains some priceless treasure…”

He grinned pointedly, and Will considered telling him that his poems were no longer in his satchel. But then he remembered that there was still a book in there – Merlin’s book of utter sauciness – and bit his tongue.

“Most of all, though,” Richard smiled, “It’s the ink on your fingers that gives you away – although I am intrigued by your apparent handicap. How do you write with such a hand?”

“Oh…” Will looked down at his awkward wrist. “Normally I don’t.”

Richard raised an eyebrow.

“Until absolutely necessary,” Will clarified. “I… keep it in my head. Until I’m satisfied, you know?”

Richard nodded, but he looked more amused than convinced. “So… have you found a place to stay yet?”

“Yeah, I thought I’d rent a room at the… um, the Black Bull.” Will gestured vaguely.

“Eww! Please. You’ll be mugged.” Richard saw Will’s expression and laughed once again, for all the world like a man who hadn’t just survived an assassination attempt. “It’s already happened, hasn’t it? Did you buy tickets for the performance?”

Will grimaced. “Never you mind.”

Richard knocked back the rest of his beer and ordered another one. “Well, luckily now you have my expertise to guide you. You can stay with me for a few days.”

“Oh…”

“No need to thank me. I do owe you one, after all.”

“So who do you think it was?” Will dared to ask. “Who tried to kill you, I mean.”

Richard shrugged, as if it didn’t matter – as if almost getting killed was all in a day’s work for him. “My father has many enemies. It’s a crazy world. But I think… I think perhaps I wasn’t actually the target.”

Will bit his lip and considered pointing out that recent events didn’t leave much room for interpretation, but Richard smiled. “I know what you’re thinking. But there was talk of the writer himself having a small part in this performance. He opted out at the last moment, but… I suppose the rumour got out. Anyway… let’s talk about something else, shall we? Something a little bit more uplifting. The plague, maybe?”

“Or the play,” Will blurted, blushing at his own eagerness. “I mean, this M-Marlowe… he’s…?” His voice trailed away. He didn’t even know what to ask, only that he needed to know how such a man could exist among mere mortals. Apparently, some people might even think he shouldn’t.

“Well, at least that’s a success story,” Richard said. “Playwrights aren’t celebrities, of course, but among those who know their poetic chaff from their bran, Marlowe’s a household name by now, no doubt about it. He came from nowhere and shot up like a comet.”

There was a wistful twinge in Will’s chest. “Funny… it seems your name has to begin with an ‘M’ to be a gifted writer.”

“Hm?”

“Oh, nothing… it’s just, there’s this Marlowe, and then there’s a Marley whose play I saw at Cambridge, and Merlin who translated _Amores_ …”

Richard barked a laugh. When Will didn’t join in, he fell quiet and looked at him with raised eyebrows. “You mean you didn’t know? They’re one and the same person!”

“What?”

“They’re just different ways of saying the same name. Like you, saying Shaksper instead of Shakespeare, like we would here.”

“Oh.” Will blushed a little. “Sorry. I never went to university.”

Richard laughed again. “As if I did! Besides, education is just a matter of ink on paper and an attitude. Apparently, he only got his degree because the Privy Council intervened. So if you’re afraid of seeming unlettered, just pretend. It’s what they all do.”

“Even Merl… Marlowe?”

Richard nodded, grinned. “Even Marlowe. Look at you, you’re already star-struck and you haven’t even met him.”

“Oh, I just…”

“No need to explain. Stellar writing, no doubt about it. But don’t go near the man. I hear he’s quite unbearable.”


	3. Chapter 3

A few days passed while Will stayed with Richard. He saw a new play every day – some back at the Rose and others at the Theatre in the northern suburbs – but at the end of the week, he had to admit that it was time to go. “I’ll just swing by Dick’s and get paid.” He grimaced, uneasy at the thought of haggling with his former bully. “How much do you think I should demand?”

Richard looked up from a roll he was studying and smiled. “Demand is a strong word for a writer.”

“I just don’t want to be fooled again.”

Richard gazed out of the window at the silent bustle in the street. “Well… for an epic poem and, what was it, twenty-five sonnets? About four pounds.”

Will stared at him in horror. “Four pounds? But that’ll only get me through a couple of months!”

Richard looked surprised. “I know. It’s a god-awful business. Not for the weak of heart. If you want to survive on writing alone, you’ll have to be more prolific. Now, if you were to write a _play_ … maybe you’d get six pounds for it. If you’re any good. That’s considerably more than a stingy printer will give you.”

Will was thrown, but only for a moment. “Nah… I’m not much of a playwright.”

“Didn’t you say _Arachne_ was based on a play of yours?”

Will averted his eyes. “Yeah…” His chest tingled. “Why do you think I rewrote it?” he mumbled, still aching at the memory even though eight years had passed. “It was awful.”

“Was it ever performed?” Richard asked, interested as always in the practical business of the stage.

“Yeah, but…” Will hesitated, loath to talk about it at all. It had been his biggest triumph, and his biggest defeat. He still didn’t know what to make of it.

***

_When there were only a few minutes of the play left, the guildhall went completely quiet. Will searched the stage, and his eyes snagged on Dick. His face was completely expressionless. He was supposed to launch into his final speech, but instead his mouth hung open in helpless idiocy, and no words came._

_For a split second, there was hesitation in the air: as if the future wasn’t yet decided, as if things could develop any which way._

_Dick stared stupidly. His nether lip began to quiver. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his eyes darted to his fellow players. A single cough from the audience resonated in the hushed hall. He was about to ruin the entire play. Everyone was watching him, and nobody was able to help him._

_Except Will._

_His heart beat like the thump-thump-thump of a fleeing rabbit. It only took him a moment to decide. Leaning forward in his chair, he whispered, “Her fault was only youth and silly pride.”_

_Dick started at the sound, confused. But after a second or two, he recognised the words. Breathing in sharply, he looked up at the audience again. “Her fault was only youth and silly pride,” he repeated._

_“With her, rebellion hath dropped down and died,” Will continued, and Dick echoed the line with only the slightest tremor in his voice. “In truth she tried to topple me, her Queen, but I’ll let mercy govern o’er my spleen.”_

_And so they went on, Will speaking from memory and Dick following his lead through the whole speech._

_“Minerva saves her from an early grave, and yet a lesson shall be taught the slave.”_

_Not a glitch, not a stutter, only pauses to breathe. It was seamless._

_“Since that she sought by art to conquer me: Arachne – live to weave eternally.”_

_With a sigh of relief, Dick completed the speech and bowed his head. A few seconds passed. Then someone clapped tentatively. After a moment’s hesitation – no longer than a heartbeat – the rest of the audience followed suit, and in moments the whole room had exploded in applause. Will clapped too, but his hands felt numb. He felt rather than saw Master Jenkins smile at him: he had done the right thing._

_So why did he feel so empty?_

_As the audience rose from their seats and started to bustle towards the exit, he turned to his mentor and held out his hand, determined in spite of everything to act like a man about it. “Thank you for all your help, Sir.”_

_Master Jenkins cocked his head in sad amusement. “Please, William. Aren’t we past that by now? Please call me Thomas.”_

_“Oh…” Will faltered, reddening._

_Master Jenkins smiled, and then pulled Will towards him in a tight embrace. Startled, Will instinctively closed his eyes to receive this physical blessing, the last touch that his beloved teacher would ever give him. Pressed against his doublet, the spring flood rose in Will’s eyes at the terrifying thought that this was it – that his powers were leaving him together with the magician who had conjured them. That Will, unlike his stage creation, would not ‘live to weave eternally’: instead his thread would dry up and nothing would be left of this flight of fancy but a flimsy, useless memory._

***

Will came back to the present with a deep sigh. Richard was watching him with an inscrutable look on his face, but there was no way Will could explain. Shortly after the show, Master Jenkins had abandoned Stratford for good, leaving his former student with the phantoms of feelings he couldn’t even name.

Shaking his head to dispel the memory, Will muttered, “It was more like a long speech than a play. My strength is in poetry, and luckily that’s exactly what Dick wants.”

Richard paused for a moment, and then shrugged. “So go to him. ‘Demand’ your four pounds.” He grinned. “If he really wants it, he’ll cough it up. Want me to come with you?”

Declining the offer, Will donned his cloak. He must do this on his own. His life had led him to this moment of truth, this clash of swords. He mustn’t rely on anyone other than himself to get through it, even though he had rather not do it at all. He had been in the printer’s power before, and he wasn’t eager to relive the experience. Dick could easily sniff and give back the poems if the price wasn’t right. But Will? What could he do? Go to another printer, yes. But they could very well offer him less, and then it would be too late to grovel for Dick.

_Four pounds_ , he reminded himself as he walked swiftly past the book stalls by St Paul’s. They were no longer children, and if he could let bygones be bygones, then so must Dick. _Four pounds. It’s the going rate_.

“Oh, you’re here for your papers, I suppose?” Dick snapped when Will found him in the inner reaches of the printing shop. “Sorry, I seem to have mislaid them. Oh, come on, since when does he spell his name with three T’s?” He paused to wallop an employee over the head. “Moron!” He turned to Will again. “Look, I’ll send the poems with a carrier when I find them, okay?” He turned away and busied himself with a box of types, shutting Will out as if he wasn’t even there.

“But… don’t you need them?” Will asked, thrown by this unexpected prologue to their haggling.

“No.” Dick’s jaw set. “Because I’m not printing them.”

Will’s mouth fell open. “But…”

”I promised to consider it, no more, no less. I’m not conducting a charity here.” When Will didn’t leave, Dick rolled his eyes. “Look. You’re simply not talented enough. Your verse is a bit… well, halting. Childish.”

Will shook his head, incredulous. “I thought you said I showed promise.”

“You did. Do. But you haven’t fulfilled it yet. There was a spark in that Salmacis sonnet, but you stole most of it from Ovid. And you use Warwickshire words that Londoners have no idea what they mean. I mean, come on… some professionalism would be welcome.”

Will stood rooted to the spot, unable to walk away.

Dick sighed. “Listen, Willie, I appreciate your effort. Well done, for a country boy. But people in these parts… they want something else.”

“Just tell me what’s wrong and I’ll do my best to mend it!”

“I am telling you,” Dick snapped. “It’s bloodless. Prudish, even. There’s no sex, there’s no violence, just longing and pondering and quasi-deep thoughts. Nobody’s interested in stuff like that. Either you’ve got something of value to say, and then you write it in the form of essays, like Voltaire or Montaigne …” Dick saw Will’s mouth twitch and misinterpreted it. “Oh, I’m sorry. They’re philosophers. Never mind. That’s not an option for you, I suppose. So your other alternative is to cater to the vulgar masses, and they want racier stuff.”

“Like _Tamburlaine_?” Will murmured.

Dick rubbed his temples. “No, not like _Tamburlaine_. That man’s just…” He groaned in frustration. “You need a story, Willie. Not these endless ramblings. Oh, it doesn’t matter any which way. I’m not interested. Now scarper.”

With that, he turned and left the room. Will stayed rooted to the spot as Dick’s employees darted around him, too busy with their tasks to even take notice. He stared into thin air, aghast at the way he’d managed to make such an utter fool of himself. Had he abandoned his father’s trade and travelled all this way to bow and scrape for a self-satisfied ass who still treated him like a child? For a moment, had he even imagined that he could be as successful as the divinely gifted Marlowe?

If he hadn’t been so stunned, he would have laughed at the irony of it.

***

“This calls for a celebration!”

“Being rejected by an ignorant oaf?”

Richard chuckled. “What better reason?” He already had a foot in the door of The Boar’s Head and was evidently not to be dissuaded. Will shrugged moodily. He might as well get pissed on his last night in London.

Richard grinned at his sour face and ushered him inside. “What does he know anyway? He’s a peasant, just like you. Actually you should be glad. Now you can go to another printer and never talk to that Dick again.”

“Maybe,” Will sulked. “Or maybe I’ll never write another word.” He shuffled after Richard towards the bar. The tavern was quiet, sunk in twilight. Only the shadowy figure of one man could be seen nursing a lonely drink in the corner. “Jesus, what a depressing place!”

“Never mind. Easier to talk without hordes of drunk apprentices hollering for beer.”

“Easier to be heard, too,” Will muttered as Richard carried their drinks to a table uncomfortably close to the only other customer in the joint.

“Listen, being turned down by Dick should be a compliment, right? And you should be happy to be thought so depraved that you fit in with people such as Marlowe.” Richard glanced at Will, who blushed stupidly. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were enamoured of that man.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Will retorted. “I’ve never even seen him.”

Richard raised an eyebrow. “Oh… that’s a factor in this? I had no idea. So if the man’s a stunner, you’d change your mind?”

“You really do like the sound of your own voice, don’t you?” Will snapped. Richard just smiled and then there was a prolonged silence as they both drank. The beer was bitter to the taste and once more reminded Will of his bleak circumstances.

“God, my life is a total shipwreck,” he groaned. “I can’t go back to Stratford now, not like this… I’ve achieved nothing! I’ll be stranded here until I’ve created some kind of career to go home and boast about…” He trailed away, glancing over his shoulder. The man in the corner seemed to be listening in, but camouflaged his eavesdropping by lighting a pipe. A cloud of smoke billowed up from behind his tousled mane and spread a heady scent of burning fields, wood and grass through the room.

“Well,” Richard declared between gulps of beer, “If you want a career, you need to present your work to somebody.”

“I’ve already done that.”

Richard snorted. “Yes, you’ve shown it to one person out of two hundred thousand, and he didn’t like it. So? What if the man’s an idiot – hell, we even know that he is. Why take his word? Why not seek out your hero and have him appraise it?”

Will stared at Richard. “My… hero?” Richard just smirked, and Will knew who he meant. Leaning forward and dropping his voice, he hissed, “I have no intention of making a fool of myself by invading some poor man’s privacy just because I’m delusional about my own talent.”

“From what I hear, Master Marlowe has no objection to having his privacy invaded,” Richard sniggered. “Or should I say ‘privates’?”

The stranger was still listening. Skin prickling with unease, Will turned to glare at him. The man’s eyes looked jet black in the dusk, and he met Will’s gaze unflinchingly. Will quickly looked away.

“Hello there.”

He looked back sheepishly. “Hello…”

The stranger laughed, but the laugh was not a happy one. It was a raucous, barking sound that bespoke late nights, large amounts of sack and frequent singing. There was a kind of confidence about him that seemed to contradict his shabby appearance – which in itself was an illusion: on closer inspection his clothes were actually quite dashing, if a bit crumpled. He just wore them with a carelessness that was easily confused with poverty.

Will’s eyes were drawn to his fingers, which were stained with ink. A nobleman’s clerk, perhaps? Will was just about to ask him about it, if only to break the eerie silence, when a group of three brawling drunkards burst in the door and made their way towards the corner. At the sight of them, the man seemed to heave a sigh.

“Hey, it’s Monsieur Melancholy!” one of the newcomers shouted and flung out his arms. “Where have you been? We’ve missed you at our little parties.”

The man slumped in his seat. “I haven’t been in the mood.” His voice sounded dead.

“You’ll get in the mood as soon as you’ve had a drink! How long were you planning on sitting here, sipping on your one huffecap like a fucking lady?”

“Like he’d know anything about fucking ladies, ha ha!”

“Come on, let’s go to the Mermaid. This place is a death-trap – there’s no one here!”

The man with the pipe glanced at Will again. Richard, who had sat perusing him with knotted eyebrows for a while, suddenly made a little gasp, and his eyes widened.

“What’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing…”

“Nothing? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

Richard hunched over and held a hand over his mouth. “It’s him.”

“Who?”

Richard frowned. “Him, damn it. Hello? _Him_!”

Will spread his hands in a bewildered gesture.

Richard rolled his eyes. “Tell you what, why don’t you go over there and introduce yourself? Bring up your line of work. Maybe he can give you some, you know… pointers for your poetry?”

Will was on the verge of retorting that he wouldn’t need any help with his writing if only his childhood school fellows had any taste in literature, when he suddenly caught on. At once all strength left his upper body, and his face drained of feeling. He stood up clumsily, the chair clattering to the floor behind him. “Let’s leave. Now.”

Richard laughed. “Come on, Will. Ask him about the business! Now’s your chance to–”

“Are you out of your bloody mind? I said, let’s go.” But even as Will strove to keep his voice down, he once again attracted the attention of the not-so-unknown man after all. When he saw that Will and Richard were leaving, he stood up and walked to their table, leaving his simpering hang-arounds behind.

“Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” His eyes searched Will’s face curiously, and for a moment Will was hit by the ridiculous thought that his poems had somehow preceded him, that rumour of his rejected writings had reached this man, this shooting star, this paragon of writers. But almost at once he realised that the question wasn’t to be taken literally. It was a pick-up line – a _parody_ of a pick-up line, and therefore impossible to respond to without making an ass of himself.

He stared at the smirking man. “I-I know _you_ ,” he stammered stupidly, snippets of _Amores_ and _Dido_ clouding his brain.

Beside him Richard shifted, embarrassed. “Burbage.” He clasped Master Marlowe’s hand, or rather the two fingers not currently employed in elegantly balancing the pipe.

Marlowe smiled briefly. “I know.”

Richard looked stricken for a moment. “Oh, er… I’m, well I’m honoured, Sir – I mean…” His customary cool seemed to have been completely sucked out of him. “Ah… please meet my very good friend William Shakespeare.” He gestured towards Will, apparently eager to deflect the attention.

“Charmed, I’m sure.” Their new acquaintance laid his pipe on the table and enveloped Will’s hand with both of his. They were seething hot and Will almost yanked his hand back. “And please, call me Kit. All my little friends do.” He glanced at the confused trio still waiting for him in the corner.

“I’m such a fan,” Will blurted.

Obviously delighted at the praise, Kit pulled up a chair and sat down. Only when his hand dragged Will down with him did Will realise that he was still holding it. “So… you’re an aspiring dramatist, then?”

“Oh, I… no… well, that is…”

“Never mind.” Kit finally let go of Will’s hand and grabbed Richard’s mug. Realising that it was empty, he set it down again in vague disappointment. “Where are you from? You’re obviously not a Londoner.”

“Stratford.”

“Stratford?”

“Upon-Avon.”

“Never heard of it. Hah! So much for a university degree.” Kit lit his pipe again, seemingly in need of something to do with his hands. “Well, nothing of value was ever taught in such a ridiculous place. Come to think of it, maybe they did mention domestic geography at some point, but education and alcohol really is a detrimental combination! You can’t have one without the other, and yet one innocent drink takes away the whole performance. So, Stratford… a shit-hole, no doubt?”

“On the contrary,” Will protested. “It’s a beautiful place. I was reluctant to leave.”

Kit grinned broadly and slapped Will’s back. “Spoken like a true gentleman! Never let on how much in love you are with the big city, you might come across as a simpleton. Wax lyrical about the unpolluted countryside instead, and you’re automatically in, eh Robert?” He winked at one of his abandoned friends. The one presumably named Robert, a thin man with a straggly red beard, muttered something inaudible in reply. Kit immediately lost interest and turned to Will again. “You should work on that accent, though.”

“Wh… what’s wrong with it?”

“It’s bloody incomprehensible, that’s what’s wrong with it! You don’t think I got to where I am by speaking like a Canterbury ale taster, do you?”

Despite himself, Will chuckled. It was difficult not to be contaminated by Kit’s exuberant manner.

“Hey, you written anything I might know?”

Will hesitated. Was he being ironic again? “Well… not really… I’ve put together some poems, but…”

Kit snorted. “Poems! Stop right there, darling. Your shoes are growing too small for your feet by the minute, and you know it. Poetry and la-di-dah is all very well, but the theatre, now that is the future.”

Will smiled tentatively. “I can see why you’d say that.”

“Setting aside my own glorious self for a minute, think about it: not everyone can read. But even the most down and out hooker has ears, and they flock to the play-houses like simpering lords to Rhenish wine. As a playwright, you have the ear of the entire city – fuck it, you have the ear of the Queen herself! And a soliloquy is poetry in its own right. Only, getting your poetry read aloud by an artiste like Edward Alleyne… not to demean you, sir,” he looked briefly in the direction of Richard, “… that just makes it so much… grander! It’s almost better than sex.”

Will nodded slowly, his mind awash with images of said Alleyne tearing the stage apart in his bloodied shirt. But he didn’t dare compliment Master Marlowe – Kit – on his intimidating talents, for fear of being taunted. Instead he mumbled, “I don’t have the imagination.”

Kit shook his head impatiently. “Don’t be stupid. Stories are ten a penny. It’s what you do with them that counts. It’s all the same crap anyway, life and love and death, blah blah blah. Use whatever’s around, that’s what we all do.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Look, when people just buy and read your stuff, you never get to see how your words seduce them. Wouldn’t you like to hear the sea-surge of applause?”

Will felt the dangerous tug of Kit’s imagery and protected himself with feigned annoyance. “I’m sure it’s all very exhilarating, but I’m quite serious when I say that I can only write poetry.”

Kit hesitated, and then shrugged. “So what? We’re the makers of manners, puppy. And verse makes for excellent crutches. That’s why you begin by writing speeches.”

_What’s it to you?_ Will wanted to ask. Instead he said, “I just don’t know how to translate the stories that I love into dialogue. I read something and I’m inspired, you know, but when I try to write, it comes out poetry. I can’t bridge the gap. I can make poetry out of stories, but I can’t make stories out of poetry.”

Kit smiled. “That’s just the kind of phrase that makes me wish you could. You have the art of rhetoric down pat – God knows how you’ve managed to pick that up from your provincial education! All you have to do is push the boat out, and I’m here to help you with that.”

Will frowned at his assailant. Just a few minutes ago, he had been wilting like a dead man in his lonely corner, for all the world like someone who had just lost his whole fortune, and now he was a veritable river of words. “Why do you care anyway?”

Kit looked stricken, but just for a moment. “Well… why did you want to meet me, if not to further your career?”

“I didn’t! I was leaving, it was you who… Ask Richard!”

Kit glanced without interest at Will’s silenced companion. Then he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, put it in his belt and blew the last cloud of smoke into Will’s face. “Tell you what. Why don’t you write a speech about…” He turned to his morose-looking friends who must have given up hope of his company by now. “Robert! You said you needed some kind of soliloquy, didn’t you?”

“What?” The red-bearded man flung up defensive hands. “No, I don’t need any help.”

“Yes you do, shut up. It was Constance, wasn’t it?”

“No.”

“Yes, it was, don’t lie to me.” Kit turned to Will again. “He needs this pompous speech, you know, anguished ramblings of the tragic heroine and all that… and he has trouble connecting with his _feminine_ side. His women come off as wooden statues. Don’t they, Robert? Now _you_ , on the other hand,” Kit grabbed a lock of Will’s hair and twisted it between his fingers. “You are surely _very_ good at identifying with girls, am I right?”

Will stared at Kit’s face, suddenly so close to his. This man had no personal space. “Oh, I don’t know… I mean, of course I took on roles at school, but…”

Kit laughed. “And I would have loved to see them! So you’ll submit something?”

“I…” Will looked over Kit’s shoulder at the fuming writer in the corner. “I don’t know, he doesn’t seem to…”

Kit scoffed. “Don’t pay any attention to Robert! He expects _me_ to help him out – he doesn’t see the difference, poor sod, doesn’t realise how glaringly obvious the shift is, from his language to mine, I mean, honestly! But maybe if you wrote it instead, as a fellow amateur your text wouldn’t jar so much against his.”

“We don’t know him,” Robert complained. “He could be worthless.”

“Don’t be so inconsiderate, Robert! We won’t know his worth until we let him try. Besides, we need some new blood. If his text is good enough, you two could even collaborate on something. Or at least he gets to show that no-good printer of his what he missed, and that’s as noble a mission as anything, right?”

Will made a face. So he had been listening in.

“Hey Will, wouldn’t that be great?” Kit implored. “When you’re a famous playwright he’ll come crawling back, begging you to grace his worthless printing house with your immortal poetry!”

Will looked down at the table, striving to hide his smile. “Okay…”

Kit cocked his head. “Okay?”

“Yes, okay. Just to shut you up, mind you.”

Kit grinned broadly. “You’re in good company, my friend. Many a thing has been done just to shut me up.”


	4. Chapter 4

Richard pounded on the door of the jakes. “Aren’t you finished yet?”

“Don’t you ever calm down?” Will shouted back.

“If you’re so eager to make a good impression, maybe you shouldn’t be half an hour late for your first official meeting.”

“Half an hour,” Will muttered as he strove to gain control over his nervous bowels. “Who cares about half an hour?”

Richard scoffed. “To a country bumpkin like you, half an hour may seem like nothing, but this is _Londinium_ , Will. Clean up your act or you’ll bury yourself in your own shit.”

“Nice metaphor.”

“Yeah, I thought it was fitting.”

Will leaned his head in his hands. Richard was right. He had been sitting here ridiculously long, battling his own panicking body. So this was the man who wanted to impress the discerning writers of London with his lofty poetry? His assignment, to write about some old Queen fighting to get her son onto the throne, was done. Badly. He hadn’t seen the rest of the text and his own recollections of King John’s story didn’t include any juicy details about Constance.

The door creaked as Richard leaned against it. “Seriously though, Marlowe was quick to take a liking to you. The others were quite peeved. And now you’re about to be introduced to the in crowd…”

“Don’t remind me.”

Richard laughed. “Are you afraid of a rabble of verse-mongers?”

Will didn’t answer. He knew he was being stupid. The upcoming meeting was not exactly a life-threatening moment. If he failed to impress them, he could just go home and forget the whole thing – tell himself he had tried, and then settle for an uneventful but comfortable life in Stratford. He never had to meet Kit again.

Determined to get a grip, he stood up and fastened his hose. When he came out, Richard was pretending to sleep. Will ignored the lame joke. “So should I take the blue doublet or the brown one?”

“Jesus, Will, calm down,” Richard laughed. “These aren’t gallants we’re talking about, they’re intellectuals.”

“I don’t know about that. Did you see Kit’s gear?”

Richard raised an eyebrow. “Well, Kit’s different. But he won’t want to be eclipsed by another popinjay anyway. Look, they only care about what you’ve written.”

“Yeah, well, what I’ve written isn’t all that great either…” Will rubbed his temples. “You know, I actually stole most of it from a poem I read.”

“So what? That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Taking old scraps and making robes fit for a king with them?”

Will grimaced. His entire education had circled around that very fact, and yet he found himself doubting it as if the ghost of a sneering Dick was hovering at the back of his mind. “But I mean… what if that poem is based on some old text that I know nothing about? University stuff. And I sit there like a fool and don’t even know the text I’m paraphrasing.”

“Again, so what? It’s your work now. Who cares about the old text? It’s old! And these university wits aren’t half as witty as they’d like to think. They just meet for cards and a drink. As long as you flatter them outrageously, it’ll be all right. Actually, take the blue doublet. That way you’ll look like an apprentice. You know, like you’re kind of a literary apprentice.”

Will winced at the mental image that came to him, of the other profession which was allotted that particular colour by the sumptuary laws. “Or a prostitute…”

Still, Will did go for the blue doublet. It had some intricate embroidery on it which made him feel vaguely distinguished, and he needed a prop to boost his confidence. Meeting the intelligentsia was bad enough, but that Kit should be there as well to witness his embarrassment… it was too much to bear.

He was just a man, no better born than Will, but his name was synonymous with genius, the beacon for anyone with intellectual ambitions. He created the dreams that haunted the London public. At the playhouse, even the hardened whores swooned at the sight of the dashing young Edward Alleyne, hacking at his enemies and prancing around so scantily clad as to actually merit the censure of the Puritans. Showing off his buff chest in shirts that were unlaced to the navel, his hair dripping with pigs’ blood, he was the very opposite of decorum, and Kit seemed to revel in it. Somehow he knew exactly what the ladies wanted and didn’t hesitate to give it to them. He was in sync with the times, a thing of mercury. No mortal man could keep up, Will least of all.

And yet he had been chosen to enter his circle. He should be flattered, not terrified.

Richard patted his head. “Come on, I’ll escort you.”

“Yeah, fuck off.”

Half an hour later, Will stepped through the door of the Mermaid and was directed to a secluded room upstairs. Eight people were talking among themselves at a round table, and the air was heavy with smoke. “Wilhelmus, my man!” Kit stood up and strode forward with a big smile. “Let me present everyone. George, John and Robert you’ve already met. John Lyly – yes, they’re related, but don’t mention it. He’s getting sick of people telling him how his grandfather ruined their childhood.”

“Okay…” Will smiled, remembering countless hours spent with Lyly’s fearsome Latin grammar. He would have to bite his tongue hard not to complain about it.

“And this is Thomas Kyd and this is Thomas Nashe and this is Thomas Watson.” Kit laughed. “You can call them Tom, Tommy and the Tomster!”

Will shook all their hands and sat in the only empty chair.

“So what have you got for us?”

Will produced the sheet from his doublet and gave it to Robert, who frowned ever so slightly at the sight of the crumpled, wine-stained paper. After reading a few lines, he looked up. “What is this shit?”

The room went very quiet. Nobody even breathed. Will opened his mouth and closed it again.

Robert threw down the sheet on the table. “Look at it! How can I work with this?”

“Now, looky here old chap,” Kit began, but Robert was not to be allayed.

“Blots and spiders’ feet!” His voice was shrill. “Look for yourself. His hand is as steady as an old drunkard’s. And the spelling! I can’t even read this. I’m sorry, but this man is not a writer.”

“Don’t be that way. Hey, Will, why don’t you read it aloud for Sir Toffee-Nose here? That way he can’t claim to be distracted by your – um, admittedly awful – handwriting.” Kit shoved the sheet towards Will, who touched it hesitantly with his fingertips. This was not a good beginning. “Go on,” Kit urged, his face aglow with anticipation.

Will held his breath, torn between a dozen different emotions.

And then he breathed in deeply. He had already blown his chances at making a good first impression anyway. Closing his eyes, he began the speech. As he spoke, a picture came to him, an engraving of King John – and all of a sudden the text seemed real. The feeling he had had of not being connected to anything in the story was gone. He _was_ connected. This was a real person. Constance had actually lived, and she actually cared about the fate of her son – much like his own mother actually cared, for all her fears about the decadence of the big city. From far away in time and space, he could see the eagerness of her hands as she opened his latest letter, hungry for news of his success…

The speech ended. He opened his eyes. Everyone was looking at him. Kit seemed to have forgotten his pipe. His dark eyes glistened inscrutably. “Blimey. Not bad for a country boy.”

Robert shrugged moodily and put the hateful sheet inside his jerkin. “It’ll do, I suppose.” He rose from his chair. “Well, gentlemen…” He deliberately looked at everyone except Will. “I’m afraid my time is up. Man cannot live on words alone, eh?” He put on his hat and left with a flamboyant swirl of his cape.

After a short silence, the room erupted in laughter. “Honestly, what a dork!” Kit exclaimed. “Off he goes, Ole Green-Eyes, off to some hooker, pretending that he’s got a hot date. Somebody ought to teach that haughty bastard a lesson.”

“Nothing could be easier,” Tom muttered. “We make him believe he has a real admirer.”

Kit gazed at Tom for a few moments and then he clapped his hands together and laughed. “It’s perfect! One of us should dress up in women’s clothes and seduce him.”

Tom scowled. “That only works on the stage, though, not in real life. Besides, he knows us all.”

Kit hesitated, but only for a moment. Will felt his eyes upon him before he even spoke. “Will…” He sprang onto the table, tiptoeing along it until he reached Will’s end, where he kneeled between the goblets and grabbed Will’s shoulders. “It’ll be hilarious. Please, please, please…”

Will shook his head, but he was smiling and preparing to say yes. Indeed, it seemed utterly impossible to deny Kit anything.

“And you, John,” Kit said breathlessly, “You’ll write the letter that we’ll deliver to him.”

“Oh, because I write like a woman?”

“Precisely.”

***

The letter was duly written and delivered, the scene set at a tavern called the Falcon and all the props gathered. Will would have given anything to back out of his commitment, but years of politeness made breaking a promise impossible. He was the principle actor-actress, so everything depended on him. He mustn’t let the director down.

So when the day arrived, he duly turned up, but Kit was nowhere to be seen. The others seemed to take it in their stride, but Will was indignant. Kit had planned the whole thing – why wasn’t he here to see it through? Will would never have taken the job if not for him. In fact, but for him, he would probably have gone home to Stratford by now. Instead he had stayed away for two whole months, and he hadn’t even made any money apart from a few pence for his Constance speech. He still lived with Richard and had sent home a couple of pounds from his traveling funds, but to lie about how the money came from writing felt wrong.

“Stop frowning, the makeup’s getting all uneven,” Richard complained. Will closed his eyes and tried to stop fidgeting while Richard finished the job.

“It’s just…” he sighed. “I must go home soon.”

“What?” Richard’s voice betrayed dismay. “Leave? Not now, surely?”

“You’ve got to give it time,” Tom said. “I know, I’ve been there.”

“But maybe I don’t need to be in London to give it time,” Will insisted. “Maybe now that I know a few people, I can write in Stratford and have a merchant deliver my speeches.”

Richard sat back, face clouded over. “You’re just moping because Kit isn’t here,” he muttered.

“I’m not moping!”

“You’ve asked for him every day since that meeting.”

Tom gazed at them both from beneath his ragged fringe. “Yeah, he… he sometimes has that effect on people.”

“I just think it’s strange that he’s not here for the actual event,” Will snapped. “He was so enthusiastic, and now he’s just… disappeared from the face of the earth.”

“That’s just him.” Tom smiled. “He’ll show up, bedraggled like a drowned cat but with seven of his nine lives still intact. Actually, last I heard, he barely escaped arrest after having almost stabbed a man.”

Will flinched. “He wouldn’t!”

Tom looked at Will as though he was crazy, and then he burst out laughing. “You don’t know Kit, that’s obvious.”

Just then, the hostess poked her head through the door. “He’s waiting at the bar. Shall I call him?”

Tom nodded, and Richard held up a spotted mirror for Will to glance at. He didn’t look half bad. His thin beard had been shaved and his lips painted red. His eyebrows were plucked, his eyes outlined in black and his painted cheeks were blushing pink.

“And remember,” Tom whispered, “Don’t overdo it. Be yourself, only a little… softer.”

He and the others hid behind a door that was left slightly ajar for their watching benefit, and Will sat in the sofa, his back wet with sweat. What had he got himself into? This was madness. The hostess had prepared the room with drapes, wall hangings and candles. The scene was set for a romantic interlude and everything looked the part. Only Will was all wrong.

Before long, Robert made an entrance which was so contrived that Will could actually hear his friends strive not to laugh out loud. Anxious to drown out the sound of the tittering men, Will rose quickly, making his gown rustle. _Remember Constance_ , he told himself. _I can be anyone_. “Master Greene,” he smiled in a seductive tone that surprised even himself. Without planning to, he had even adopted a faintly foreign accent.

“Mistress Violet?” Robert stepped forward to kiss Will’s hand.

“The very same, Sir,” he replied with eyes modestly downcast. “Have you eaten?” He gestured towards the table laden with exotic fruits.

“I was hungry when I got here, but now that I have laid eyes on you, my appetite has changed,” Robert fawned and moved closer to steal a little something before dinner.

“Oh, not so quickly, Sir,” Will exclaimed and took a step back.

“Shy, are we? I thought French ladies were supposed to be liberal with their favours?”

That was it: he realised that he was imitating Kit’s parody of Mary Queen of Scots. “We also consider food to be most important,” Will said, haggling for time. He had no idea what to do next. They had prepared the surroundings and the letter in minute detail, but insofar as the actual scene was concerned, he was on his own. Since it was impossible to predict Robert’s behaviour, Will had no script. He had to improvise. “Grape?”

He held out one small globe of rich purple. Robert leaned forward and enveloped the fruit as well as half of Will’s fingers with his mouth. Will even thought he could feel the man’s tongue slither up his thumb, and fought down a disgusted grimace. Was this how his wife had felt when she rejected his advances at the beginning of their marriage? Quickly withdrawing his hand, he thought he saw Robert’s eyes snag on something. He looked down and saw the ink stains on his fingertips. Fuck! He hurriedly hid them in the folds of his skirt. Why on earth had he accepted this role? Was he so desperate to belong that he agreed to prostitute himself like this?

“So tell me…” he purred, striving to sound relaxed as he sat down and managed to show off his non-existent bosom in the process. “A man like you… a poet… what are you doing, writing for the theatre? You should be composing sonnets for the Queen, not peddle simple-minded entertainment for the filthy masses.” While he was talking, he batted his reinforced eyelashes at Robert and smiled in what he believed to be a demure way, all in an attempt to attract attention to his painted face and away from any maleness in his body.

“Oh, I will,” Robert laughed. “Don’t you worry. I must say, you have some small talent yourself – if you really did write that letter.” His gaze dropped to where Will was hiding his hands.

He had to go with it. “I did.”

“Very articulate and poetic, I thought.”

Will heard John’s intake of breath behind the door. This must be the first time Robert praised anything of his. “You didn’t find it… too much?” Will asked for John’s sake. “Exaggerated? Overburdened with adjectives?”

“One can never have too many adjectives. They’re the embellishments of the text, just like trinkets on a woman.” Robert reached out to play with Will’s necklace. Will giggled and turned a coquettish shoulder his way.

“I’ve heard of this other writer… maybe you know him? He uses a lot of adjectives too.”

A slight tremor in Robert’s upper lip revealed his irritation at having to talk about someone other than himself. “And what’s this person’s name?”

“Oh, Marl… something.”

“Marlowe?” Robert scoffed. “He’s a twat. Now, where were we?”

“But I quite like his writings,” Will insisted.

“I don’t see why you should. The man’s a clown.” Robert moved closer on the sofa and grabbed Will’s waist.

Will flew up in a panic and then smoothed over his rejection with a hysterical giggle. “Really, Master Greene… can’t we just talk for a while?”

Robert sighed irritably, his eyes already devouring Will’s falsely feminine form. Amazed and dumbstruck, he wondered how the illusion of womanhood could conjure such desire. If Robert was attracted to something that wasn’t even there, was his attraction real? Or was all desire just a ruse?

Racking his brains for something to throw at his would-be lover, to keep him at bay like a dog with a bone, Will was still hesitating, open-mouthed, when Robert anticipated him with the bluntest come-on imaginable. “Don’t you want to make love?” At this, the hidden audience erupted in helpless sniggers behind the door. Robert sprang from the sofa. “Who the fuck…?”

Richard and the others burst into the room, shrieking with laughter, patting Robert’s back and hugging Will for making such a good show. Tom grabbed his wig and threw it on the floor with a hoot. “Happy Twelfth Night, Robert!”

But Robert wasn’t laughing. His face had contorted in a vicious snarl. “Who the hell do you think you are?” He drew a small dagger from his belt and lunged at Will with it. Richard threw himself between them and caught Robert’s hand in mid-air. Will ducked away and stumbled behind Robert, his gown tangling in his legs and almost tripping him up. The dagger trembled between Robert and Richard for a few moments and then plunged, slicing Richard’s eyebrow. Blood burst from the wound and Richard staggered backwards. Will leapt at Robert from behind and hooked an arm around his throat, choking him. Tom brought down the side of his palm on Robert’s wrist and the dagger clattered to the floor. Will let Robert go and quickly picked it up. Shivering with rage, Robert stood staring at them each in turn for a few moments. Then he stalked towards the door and banged it behind him.

“Well…” Tom said after a short but awkward silence. “Maybe we overestimated his sense of humour?”


	5. Chapter 5

The wind rustled in bare hedges beneath an overcast sky. The air was light, and there seemed to be a vague promise of sunlight behind the clouds. It was beautiful, in a melancholy sort of way. A good day for farewells.

The failed practical joke had been a sign. Will’s journey home was long overdue. He hadn’t come here to make enemies, to waste his time on sour-faced wannabes who thought they were better than him.

Besides, he hadn’t had a decent job offer since the Constance speech. All the printers had smiled politely and explained that winter was a bad time for poems.

Well, it didn’t matter anymore. At least he had tried.

Walking north through Bishopsgate and into Shoreditch, he saw a rogue ray of sun break through the blanket of the clouds and glint off the roof of the Theatre. At the sight, there was a twinge of regret in his chest. Silly sentimentality, of course. London was just a three day ride away. If he ever decided to try for poetic stardom again, he had the requisite connections.

Connections… The thought gave him pause. Somewhere among these streets, Richard had pointed out Kit’s lodging-house. Apparently the prodigal playwright was back. Someone had seen him at a tavern just the other day. Maybe Will should go visit him, just to say goodbye?

The decision was made almost without thinking. In minutes, he recognised the lopsided building where Kit lived. Heaving open the front door, he mounted the stairs to his room. “Kit? You in there?” He tried the door. It was locked. His arms fell to his sides and hung there limply as he tried to convince himself that he wasn’t disappointed. It had been exhilarating to get to know such a talented man, but Will had to leave and couldn’t wait for Kit to turn up just for the last farewell.

With a final knock just for the sake of it, he turned to walk back down the stairs, reconciled to the fact that he would probably never meet Kit again. But at that moment a moan came from inside, and something fell and broke on the floor. Will stopped, his heart lurching in his chest. “Are you in there?” he called.

No answer.

“Hello?” a little louder.

Still nothing.

Will frowned. Was Kit asleep and didn’t hear him? Or was he ill? Heart speeding up, he battled images of a man in the throes of the sweating-sickness. “I’m going to ram the door if you don’t open it,” he told the keyhole.

Not a sound.

“That’s it, I’m coming in!”

He took as many steps back as the landing permitted and flung himself at the door. It squeaked, but didn’t budge. He started kicking at it, but nothing happened. He tried the handle again, even though he knew it was meaningless. “Kit!” he shouted and thought he heard an answering groan, but it was such a weak sound that he wasn’t sure. He stared at the scarred wood. Then he laid his ear against it and closed his eyes. There was something in there, he was sure of it. A regular sound, like… raspy breathing.

“Are you alright?” Will heard his own voice teeter on the verge of panic. Kit needed help. What could he do?

Get someone.

He ran down the stairs and into the street to stop the first man he could get hold of. “Please, there’s someone upstairs who’s sick, can you help me open the door?” The stranger shrugged him off and hurried away, leaving Will with his mouth open in shock. That would never have happened in Stratford. There, assisting your neighbour was a must.

“Can anyone help me?” he called out, a general plea that went as unheeded as the first one. Even though the street was full of people, everyone turned their backs or pretended not to hear him. “Hello…?”

But as he watched them push past, intent on reaching their own destinations without delay, it slowly dawned on him that in a city of London’s size there were no neighbours, only presumptive murderers and pickpockets.

His pulse started thudding in his ears. Kit was up there, locked in a prison of his own making, and something was wrong. Will didn’t have the strength to break in on his own, he needed help. But who?

The flag on the Theatre flapped in the wind and he remembered Richard saying that he was leaving his old company for the Lord Strange’s Men. He would be there now, getting ready for the afternoon’s performance. Without stopping to think, Will set off. The putrid air pained his lungs as he sped through mud and rotten cabbages, dodged carts and cows and cockle mongers, his heart already back with Kit.

“You can’t come in here, we’re just starting the show,” an ugly little prat told him as he barged into the tiring-house.

“I have to see Richard!”

“He’s already in costume.”

“I don’t care.” Will tried to push the boy out of the way, but he was stronger than he looked.

“What’s the ruckus?” Old Master Burbage turned up, stern frown augmented by makeup.

“I need Richard!” Will heard his own voice, distorted past recognition by mounting terror.

“He’s needed in–”

“Please!”

Burbage shook his head, and someone behind him said, “Horatio’s not on until the second scene.”

At that moment, Richard himself poked his head through a curtain. “What are you doing here? Haven’t you left already?”

“Please, will you just help me…”

Richard immediately took his arm and led him outside. “What’s the matter?”

“Kit’s in his room, I think he’s ill or something, I tried to get in, but… We have to do something!”

Richard looked at him seriously. “No, we don’t.”

A strong hand seemed to wrench at Will’s heart, to rip it out of his chest. “What do you mean?”

“He’s probably not alone,” Richard said.

“What are you talking about? I heard no other voices.”

“But he wouldn’t drink by himself, would he? He’s always surrounded by people.”

“Not this time!” Will’s voice was shrill and ugly, each word a stab of agony.

Richard’s shoulders fell with a sigh. “Okay. But this is for you, not for him. And I have to be back within a quarter of an hour.” He glanced over his shoulder to see that no one was looking and then followed Will back to Kit’s lodgings, armed with an iron rod. This time there wasn’t a sound from behind the door. “He’s probably gone out,” Richard muttered. “Or he’s sleeping. Perhaps _with_ someone.”

Will wrenched the tool from him without a word and went at the door with it. The tapered edge only reached a little bit inside the crack, and as he bent the rod, the wood of the door splintered. This made a bigger slit, and he was able to insert the rod further for his next go.

“He’ll have your hide for that,” Richard commented drily, but Will ignored him. On his third try he managed to break the door open. It swung up and crashed into the wall and Will tumbled into the room.

And there he was. Lying on the floor amid a puddle of his own vomit, Kit resembled a pile of filthy laundry more than a human being. His hair was in knots and a naked twitching foot stuck out from beneath his sullied nightshirt. There was no other sign of consciousness. 

“Jesus!” Richard exclaimed, as if only now realising the gravity of the situation. Will fell to his knees beside the lifeless heap and rolled him onto his back. Kit’s face was pale, bordering on translucent, and his damp eyelashes clumped together in a spiky pattern against his bloodless cheeks. For a moment, Will didn’t breathe. As the horrible truth filled him like icy water, the hand that held Kit’s shoulders cramped and dug into the stained fabric.

A sudden intake of air revealed the man to be alive. A tiny arrow pierced Will’s heart as Kit laboured to open his eyes. “Will…” He tried to smile. “Wanna go for a drink?” He made as if to sit up, but had no control of his limbs. Giving up, he slumped in Will’s arms.

“Look at you, you’re completely wasted!”

“Yeah… it is a waste, isn’t it? A fucking shame…” Kit laughed drunkenly. “Hey… do you like me?”

“What? What kind of a question… Come on, try to stand up.”

Kit waved his arms in protest. “Tell me one good thing that I’ve done!”

Will was momentarily speechless, and of course Kit took it the wrong way.

“You see? You can’t even think of one thing.” With that, he curled up on the floor and shook with silent weeping. Will went cold, then hot. What had Kit been doing in here? This was no mere alcoholic stupor. Something else was involved.

“The Red Fairy,” Richard said simply, holding up a small vial at the far end of the room. “Figures.”

“Was that what you took?” Will asked Kit, but he was too out of it even to register the question. Will reflexively reached out a hand and stroked his hair like he would his children’s. But Kit’s hair didn’t feel like his children’s, which was silky and fine. Rather it resembled the shaggy fur of some exotic animal. “Richard, could you find some water for him?”

“Water…” Kit groaned. “You want to kill me?”

“Sure.” Richard threw a brief look at the bizarre duo on the floor. Then he disappeared out the door and Will was left sitting with Kit’s head in his lap. His head was heavy – as heavy as his wife’s the first time she had lain on Will’s arm – and a long time passed without a word from either of them. Kit’s quiet weeping subsided and the room grew lighter as the clouds outside dispersed.

“My father had a daughter…” Kit began at length. “Well, she’s my sister. She was in love with this man who… she couldn’t tell.” His voice was strangely veiled, as if he spoke from a dream.

“What happened to her?” Will urged him on, clinging to the hope that maybe talking was a good thing. As long as Kit didn’t drop off, at least Will knew he wasn’t dead.

“Well, nothing, I suppose. She couldn’t tell him.”

“Why?”

Kit shook his head. “Because.”

“Did she marry someone else?”

“Marry?” Kit frowned. “Why should I marry?”

He was delirious. Will sighed.

“Have you been warned against me?” Kit asked, opening an eye to peer up at him. Will chuckled in spite of himself.

“Yeah…”

“Well, you have no idea… I’m totally insane.” Despite his obvious intoxication, Kit had no trouble articulating. He reached up and tugged briefly at Will’s collar. “But you’re nice to me anyway…” With obvious effort he turned around in Will’s arms and sat up. He rubbed his face wearily and looked around. “Where’s the…?”

“You shouldn’t take any more.”

Kit frowned. “As if I’d let a little prude like you decide that for me.”

Prude? Will blushed angrily. This was the second time since he came to London that he was accused of being prudish. And this time he couldn’t wave it off as a malicious remark from an enemy. This was Kit. His… friend. “I won’t let you kill yourself with that stuff,” he said.

Kit snorted and shook his head. “I’ll do what I bloody well like in my own home.”

“No you won’t.”

“And who will stop me?”

At that moment, Richard stepped through the door with a flask of water in his hand. Kit took one look at him and lay down again with a groan.

“I hate you.”

***

 _I hate you_. The words haunted Will during the weeks that followed, weeks when he lingered, limbo-like, at the outskirts of the capital, his promise to go home crumbled to dust. _I hate you_. He couldn’t get the words out of his head.

But Kit couldn’t be held accountable for what he said under the influence of the Red Fairy. In fact, he didn’t even seem to remember, and he definitely didn’t object to Will turning up at his somewhat unexpected birthday, celebrated in the inner room at The Boar’s Head.

“So how does it feel to be twenty-four?”

Kit turned in the sofa and looked up at Will, smiling at the cliché question. “You’ll find out soon enough, won’t you?”

“I suppose I will.” Will put a mug of dragon’s milk in front of Kit before sitting down beside him. Kit grabbed the mug and gulped down half the contents. Will watched him do it, glad that it was only beer.

“I’m kind of relieved I am, though,” Kit said, leaning back into the cushions. “Twenty-four, I mean. I wasn’t sure I’d… you know.”

Will nodded. An awkward silence ensued. Then Kit laid an arm behind Will on the back of the sofa and proceeded to point out some of the guests to him. He claimed not to know half the people who had turned up to congratulate him, but they all seemed to know him well enough – or at least they had a wish to.

“So what’s your next project?” Will asked, having no interest in the hordes of groupies who were throwing jealous looks at him.

“I’ve got an idea for a piece on Doctor Faustus,” Kit said, quite happy to change the subject. “You know him?”

“Deal with the devil guy?”

“That’s the one.”

“Sounds exciting.”

Kit laughed. “Are you perhaps my biggest fan, William?”

Will’s eyes filled in embarrassment. “I just appreciate good poetry.”

“What about you? What are you writing?”

Will looked away. The official reason for his staying in London this long – which Kit well knew – was a collaborative endeavour with Robert. They were supposed to be writing a play about Henry VI, but they hadn’t even discussed the outline yet. Robert was still sulky about the joke they’d played on him, especially the part where they all refused to tell him who the girl was. Amazingly, he had failed to recognise Will and still didn’t know that it was him he had tried to seduce. It should make Will laugh. Instead he felt nothing.

“Right now… I’m doing fuck all,” he admitted. “I don’t know… my hand just can’t bring itself to pick up a quill. It’s as if there’s lead in it. Even though all I ever wanted is within my grasp.”

Kit nodded and sighed. “It’s called wanting what you can’t have. It’ll pass. Or it was never meant to be.”

“But if it was never meant to be, what was the point of…” Will swallowed, stupid emotion threatening to choke him. “… of everything?”

Kit turned a pair of searching eyes on him, as if probing for hidden treasures. Will looked away, suddenly afraid there might be something to find. “Hey…” Kit murmured. “Who… who was it for you?”

Will fought off a sudden image of Master Jenkins. That cold November evening, snowflakes melting on Will’s lips, those kind eyes… Clearing his throat, he croaked, “What do you mean?”

“Who made you want to write?” Kit clarified. “Or do you have some boring story about how you’ve always wanted to be a poet, ever since you were a small boy?”

“No…” Will glanced around the suddenly quiet group of people closest to them. They were all listening, eager to hear how on earth such a maladroit country lad could have managed to weasel into this position – on Master Marlowe’s right side, ready to judge the living and the dead.

He needlessly cleared his throat again. “I was about eleven, I suppose…”

“Aah, the good old days when wanking was new,” Kit grinned. “Go on.”

Will paused, trying to pinpoint exactly when and where it had happened. The urge to write had grown on him gradually, but there had been a moment in time when the first flame leapt up in his soul. “I stole this book… from the school.” He blushed at the belated confession. He had never told anyone, but it seemed impossible to lie to Kit. “But then – it was so odd… my teacher… Master J… Jenkins.” He paused to swallow. “He gave it to me. I mean, normally, he would scold me for anything and everything, he was never satisfied even though I could recite any passage from Plutarch he chose to throw at me, or conjugate any verb…”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, do we have a swot in our midst?” Kit interrupted, grinning.

Will shook his head. “Not really. It just stuck…”

His voice trailed away, lost in the long, golden afternoon of those days, when words had begun to take on new meanings and childhood receded beyond his grasp.

 _Your honeyed eyes, Juventius,_  
_If one should let me go on kissing still,_  
_I would kiss them three thousand times,_  
_Nor would I think I should ever have enough,_  
_Not if the harvest of our kissing were thicker_  
_Than the ripe ears of corn…_

_Young heart in suspended animation behind his ribs, a fourteen year old Will had read Catullus’s lines over and over, trying to grasp the sense, hoping and dreading comprehension. The author was a man, of course, and the recipient was a youth – and yet the poem read like a declaration of love. The February dusk had long since fallen over the King Edward VI Grammar School, but one tiny flame had still flickered in the window, gasping in the draught. In the weak light, young Will had sat there reading, late into the night, until his skin burned and his mind reeled._

“And what was it?”

Will resurfaced, vaguely disoriented. “What was what?”

Kit smiled. “The book. That your teacher gave you.”

“Oh, that…” Will frowned away Catullus and fumbled for the other name – the name that had sparked his imagination and ultimately sent him on the path to London. “Uh, Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_.” At the mere syllables on his tongue, he felt himself melt into a smile. The old Roman was the only reason why he had braved the cramps in his hand and picked up a quill in the first place.

Kit’s mouth opened slightly. There was a twitch in his cheek, as if he was about to laugh, or perhaps cry. Nobody around them said anything. No one even seemed to move. Will realised that he too was frozen like a statue. “You can do worse for a Bible,” Kit mumbled finally, his voice entirely devoid of mockery.

“Well… what about you?” Will asked.

Kit smiled hesitantly. “You’re looking at your mirror image, my friend.” His voice was soft and low, as if the moment were sacred. Will felt his soul rise and hover in the air above them. He was lightheaded, dizzy.

“Everyone has respect for Ovid,” Tom protested sullenly.

Kit didn’t even glance at him, just continued looking at Will. “But you… you _get_ him.” It wasn’t a question.

“I like to think I do…”

“ _The mingled bodies of the pair unite_ ,” Kit whispered, “ _and fashion in a single human form…_ ”

Will shook his head slowly, unable to believe what was happening. “… _So one might see two branches, underneath a single rind uniting grow as one_ ,” he continued the quote.

A grin pulled Kit’s lips apart and he seemed to shimmer with an inner light. “ _So, these two bodies in a firm embrace no more are twain, but with a two-fold form nor man nor woman may be called…_ ”

“… _though both in seeming they are neither one of twain_.”

There was a long silence which not even Tom had the indecency to ruin. Then Kit murmured so quietly that Will knew only he could hear it, “I feel like I’ve met my long-lost twin.”

Time seemed to expand, to slow down, to catch them in a sticky net that refused to let go. A boisterous feeling without a name filled Will’s lungs, and he forced himself to look away. “If I thought I looked like you I’d drown myself,” he said, attempting a laugh.

Kit hesitated for the duration of a heartbeat, and then decided to laugh too. The spell was broken. “You don’t,” he said. “I have beautiful eyes, for example, which you haven’t. And you’re awfully skinny.” He grabbed at Will’s waist, pinching him. The group around them sniggered. “We really have to fatten you up a bit if you’re to survive in this merciless business.”

“So I’m ugly _and_ I’m thin?” Will grinned, his voice almost back to normal. Joking and banter was safe. He could do that any time. “Well, yes, I confess, I’m not for all markets. But fortunately I’m already sold. There are low bidders in Warwickshire.”

Kit stopped laughing. “What, you’re… _married_?”

Will looked up, startled by his tone. “Yeah…”

Kit drew a breath, but thought better of whatever he had planned to say. Instead, he took a swig from his mug and then looked at Will through the corner of his eye, a sad smile touching his face. Then he traced a light finger down Will’s nose and nudged the tip playfully. The contact only lasted for a moment, but it left a burning sensation on Will’s skin. _Touched by the master_ , he thought. _That’s why my stomach turned to water. The great magician touched me._ And then: _So what? Relax._

But just as he thought it, Kit grabbed the hair at the back of his head and pulled him close until his ear almost touched Kit’s lips, and he whispered, “You saved my life. I’ll owe you for that.”


	6. Chapter 6

Trees were in bloom, gentle rain brought moisture to the thawed fields, birds had begun to sing and tavern hosts all over London were making money like crazy. Now when the sun shone it didn’t just give light, but also some warmth. People shed their lined cloaks and lingered for longer in the markets, stopping to talk even when there was no immediate need. There was new buoyancy in their step and a twinkle in their eyes.

Only Will shunned all company and stayed indoors.

He had an excuse, of course: he had finally found a way to earn money. The only time he spent among people was the two or three hour premieres at the Rose or the Theatre. Immediately afterwards, he hurried out of the sight of his fellow men and stayed up for several nights in a row to commit the endless lines to paper. He had the occasional pitcher of wine to ease the awful cramp in his hand, and as soon as one copy was finished, he ran to deliver it, too stingy to pay an errand boy to do it. Then he went to a new play, which he transcribed and gave to the other company.

It had been Richard’s idea. The Lord Strange’s Men had need of more scripts than the city’s writers had time to provide. The solution was simple: they stole their repertoire from rival companies, and Will was of course a prime candidate for the actual job. What Richard didn’t know was that their own original plays leaked through the same vessel back to the Admiral’s Men. It wasn’t very nobly done, of course, but lucrative as hell.

It also meant that Will had no free time whatsoever, which was exactly how he wanted it.

He had gone home briefly for Lent, when the theatres were all closed, but he hadn’t stayed long. His father’s complaints about his eldest son’s scampering around the countryside all day instead of working soon became impossible to handle. His wife had been very understanding when he left again. _You’ll come back_ , she had shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. But it did. He had been away too long, and they both knew it. If she had begged him to stay at home, maybe he would have crumbled. But she didn’t. Perhaps Will’s grand speech about being on the brink of success had really convinced her. He had explained that he ‘had to strike while the iron was hot’, and ‘no iron was hotter right now than that of Kit Marlowe’. If Will was to make it big, he must learn from that man. Like the moon, he must borrow his shining from the undoubted king of the spheres.

Yet Kit was the very man he avoided.

In the long run it was probably a stupid strategy. Dodging company and spending all his waking hours on other people’s plays would hardly earn him another real writing job. But something kept him inside, hiding from everyone, half afraid even to be seen in sunlight.

Today was a day of delivery, however, and he would simply have to venture outside if he wanted to be paid. Opening the front door of what was, as of now, his lodging-house, he stepped out into the street. He had finally stopped living off Richard and found his own place to stay. It was kind of small and kind of dingy, but he only needed somewhere to sleep and work, and for that a bed, a chair and a table was quite enough. In truth, he could even have made do with just a bed.

Clutching _The Misfortunes of Arthur_ to his chest, he stepped into the street and scanned his surroundings, apprehensive like a wild animal. But there were no dangers in sight, only a flower woman peddling her wares and singing in the sunshine. Only… he wasn’t entirely sure which way he should take. _I’m already lost, and yet this is supposed to be my home._

A well-off looking couple emerged from a door further up the street and Will hurriedly latched onto them, hoping to find – what was it… Winding Lane? Sure enough, after a couple of minutes he began to recognise his surroundings. There was a fruit stall that he remembered, and he knew that if he passed that and took to the left he would reach Bishopsgate Street. From there the way to the Master of the Revels’ office was easy to find.

When he arrived at the right address, the Admiral’s Men had just performed their latest original acquirement for Master Tilney and managed not to have it completely ripped apart. The Queen’s scrupulous censor was a veritable needle’s eye for every play to pass through, and Will knew that the Men would be glad to receive another hand-me-down which had already been through the grinder. His ugly handwriting would be laughed at, of course, but Will possessed the best memory in London and could be relied upon to retell the entire text word for word.

The tired little group of actors were milling about on the sidewalk, making sure they had the right rolls with them for last minute studying. Edward, subdued and soft-spoken now that he was off stage, was talking quietly with a few of them. Hoping that he would be too exhausted for chitchat, Will approached, play in hand. “Ah, my dear bringer of treasure,” Edward smiled and took the pages, scanning the dramatis personae to see what role he was to shine in next.

“Everything okay?” Will asked, eager to be set free and be on his way.

Edward looked up, dazed with the magic of the first few lines. “Oh… yes, of course. Thank you.” He felt in his purse for Will’s recompense, and Will had just begun to walk away, when out of nowhere, Kit appeared.

Will’s heart creaked to a shocked stop.

“Another head on the chopping block?” Kit grinned, clasping Edward’s hand. Will hastily retreated behind an actor named Augustine, unwilling to be seen in his sleep-deprived state.

“It went really well, actually,” Edward replied, stage persona back in place, long hair tossing proudly.

“I’m so jealous,” Kit sighed, throwing a mock doleful look at the play they had just had scrutinised by the authorities. “I wish I could write dully enough not to be berated by Master Tilney, but alas, it’s not for me…”

Edward gave a wicked smile which made him look even younger than his twenty-one years. “Maybe if you offered him a standing place in the Rose he’d gush all over you.”

“Eww,” Kit grimaced. “Even a seasoned tart like me has standards, you know.”

Edward laughed. Face burning, Will cowered even lower behind Augustine. He only half understood their meaning, but wished that he didn’t.

“So what have you got brewing then?” Edward inquired chattily, Will’s pirated play all but forgotten. New work, after all, trumped everything. “Something to eclipse your last scandal? Wait, don’t tell me. Your protagonist is… let me see… Jesus himself, preaching atheism to a rabble of sodomites and pickpockets? Am I right? I think I could pull that off, you know. The Son of God, played by Edward Alleyne – I quite like the sound of that.”

Kit laughed. “Actually, I’m bringing the devil on stage in my next piece. I thought perhaps Augustine could play him, what with his black eyes and Roman nose…” Kit’s eyes scanned the group, looking for Augustine, and his eyes snagged on Will. For a heart-stopping moment, Will thought he would say something, but he looked away almost immediately, and Will was eternally grateful.

At the same time, it skewered his heart like a dagger.

“The devil,” Edward laughed, delighted. “That’ll surely win you the undying admiration of the Privy Council!”

Kit shrugged. “I had no intention of pleasing them when I started penning it. So, what lily-livered piece did you present that got you off scot-free?”

“ _Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_. Robert’s latest.”

Kit made a horrified face. “A religious comedy? Contending with Tom’s hit at the Theatre? My sincerest condolences, then. I suppose you can’t wait for mine. I’ll try my best to finish it quickly.”

“We do have other stuff too, you know,” Edward shot back, just a teensy bit needled. “William here is working on something – aren’t you?”

Will’s chest cramped. “Oh, I…”

Now for the first time, Kit looked properly at him. “Really? Something other than _Henry_? What’s the story then?”

“I-I’m not sure yet,” Will stammered, his eyes flitting to and fro without settling anywhere. “It’s just… they pay you less for pirated stuff, so…”

“Well, actors are stingy creatures,” Kit commented drily. Edward promptly opened his purse and fished out a few coins.

“To make sure my part is better than Augustine’s,” he grinned.

“Oh, it is, believe me,” Kit said and grabbed at Edward’s crotch.

“Like you’d ever get to know,” Edward scoffed. And then, over his shoulder as he walked away, “Bring it next week.”

Robbed of their natural centre, the rest of the actors dispersed quickly, off to the nearest tavern to wash away what little of their lines they had managed to con. Kit watched them go with a condescending smile and then walked towards Will. “Well, this will pay for another month’s board,” he said as he let his coins fall, tinkling, into his purse.

“That’s more than he gave me for a whole play,” Will muttered. “No wonder I’m forced to be a double agent.”

A startled shadow passed over Kit’s face, but then he got Will’s meaning and chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry. To be honest is to be one man in ten thousand. How’s your _Henry_ coming along, then?”

Will shrugged, clearing his throat in a vain attempt to gain control over his voice. “I think Robert would rather write the whole thing himself.”

Kit shook his head in perfect imitation of concern. “He’s so mistrustful! And such a perfectionist. Maybe you should take the hint and write something on your own.”

“I’m not good enough yet.” Will sighed. “And I can’t present anything that isn’t perfect.”

“Then you’ll never do anything.”

Will made a face. “I’m not educated. I’ll get no second chances. I have to appear with a bang. You know, like Tom did.” He rubbed his face wearily. “But I also need money… I wish I had my own private company, one that would play anything I wrote, just for me. You know, to practise on.”

Kit smiled. “The Lord Shakespeare’s Men?”

Will laughed, relaxing just the tiniest bit. “Something like that…”

“Okay, moving on to the realm of the realistic… Look, if you want my advice, what’s doing really well right now is histories.”

“Henry.” Will grimaced. “But I know nothing about him! And I won’t ask Robert, I just won’t.”

“I suppose you need to read more,” Kit shrugged.

“I know, but I can’t afford books.”

“I can. Maybe you should have a look in my library?”

The question was innocent enough – Kit didn’t even look at Will as he said it – and yet his tone had changed, his voice had dropped to a sonorous baritone and the innocuous word ‘library’ seemed to take on an entirely new meaning. Thrown, Will fabricated a quick lie. “I want to read new books. To know what’s happening now. Dick Field has some really interesting volumes that…”

“Field?” Kit mimed stabbing himself and Will remembered the rejected translation of _Amores_. “Good luck with that. He doesn’t know quality when it kicks him in the balls. Besides, doesn’t he just pander religious pamphlets?”

“Not exclusively.”

Kit watched Will in silence for a while, a thoughtful frown forming on his forehead. “So why don’t you ask if you can borrow them?” he suggested finally. “You know this guy, right?”

Will shook his head. “It would be such a let-down.”

“They’re only books. It’s not a fucking duel.”

Will said nothing.

“Anyway, what’s this book you want?”

“Several. Can’t name them all.” Will had no special wish-list, but he couldn’t very well tell Kit that. Not now. He had ensnared himself in his own yarns.

Kit was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “So why don’t we go get them? I’m free tomorrow night.”

Will’s hands shot up in protest. “First of all, I said I want nothing to do with him. Second, the shop is closed at night.”

Kit grinned mischievously. “Thus sparing you the displeasure of your first point…”

***

A candle was still burning in the window upstairs as Will and Kit sidled close to the house, avoiding the fine rain. Will’s breathing was shallow with nerves, but he also felt a kind of elation. For once he was doing something illegal, something not thought through.

“Posh neighbourhood,” Kit muttered with a disdainful look at the windows above. “Nobody out after dark. This the door?”

Will nodded. Kit took out two thin pieces of metal and inserted them into the lock. With a couple of expert moves, he made something click inside. Throwing a glance down the deserted street, he pushed at the door and it swung open without a sound. They crept into the printing shop and were instantly hoodwinked: everything went completely black. For a moment they just stood there in the darkness and breathed the smell of ink. Then Will put out his hands and fumbled through the room, following a map in his brain to the tables where Dick displayed his most coveted wares.

“See anything you like?” Kit whispered, managing to sound ironic even without the timbre of his vocal cords.

“You forget that I’ve been here in daytime,” Will whispered back. “I know exactly where the good stuff is. Here, for example, is North’s translation of Plutarch, and over here is, dare I say it, _Metamorphoses_ in the original Latin.” He sighed theatrically. “Oh, to have but a peek…”

“But since you don’t have a light, your second best option is to steal the lot.”

Will smiled ruefully to himself. “I couldn’t.”

“Then remind me why the fuck we’re here?”

Will paused before mumbling, “You could, though. Steal it, I mean.”

There was a moment’s stunned silence. Then Kit burst out laughing. Will shushed him, fear of discovery throwing him into a cold sweat. “That’s how deep your sense of honour runs?” Kit’s smooth voice was suddenly very near in the darkness. “You don’t want to do the deed, but you’d readily let someone else do it for you, while you remain honest and yet receive the fruit of their inappropriate labour.”

Will blushed hotly. “I…”

“Not to mention your derogatory view of my character? I suppose I can’t really sink any lower in your eyes? If I steal a couple of books there’s really no harm done.”

“Sorry, I don’t…”

“Not to worry, I do it with pleasure,” Kit smiled audibly. “Now what do you want? Ovidian orgies? Indecent Italian grammar? Plutarch’s _Parallel Lives_? Or what about _The French Littleton: a most easy way to learn the French tongue_ …?”

Without the aid of his eyes, Will’s ears picked up on every little nuance in Kit’s voice, every double meaning, every verbal version of obscene gestures. But he wasn’t at all aware of backing away from his friend until his shoulder hit a box of types which fell to the floor with a loud crash. “Jesus!” For a moment, they stood frozen, just listening. Will’s heart thudded loudly in the temporary silence. Then a window could be heard opening outside and there was a scraping sound from upstairs, followed by the definite sound of feet on the floor above their heads – heavy, hurried steps marking the few moments they had to flee.

“He’s coming!”

Will didn’t have to say it twice. Before he knew it, Kit was out the door and Will with him, his arm in a tight grip that almost hurt. As they stumbled away from the shop there was an explosion of barks from rudely wakened Blackfriars dogs. “Thieves!” the holler rose behind them.

“Just run!” Kit shouted at Will, and he did. They sprinted down the street, at first unheeded, but in a matter of moments two constables reacted to the cry of ‘Thieves, thieves’ and started running after them. It took all of Will’s strength just to keep up with the quicksilver Kit, who suddenly took a left-hand turn which seemed completely crazy. “What are you…?”

“Just follow me!”

Will obeyed, running blind through the pitch black of the unlighted alley, certain that it was a cul-de-sac. On the other hand, nobody knew the city’s nooks and crannies better than Kit.

“They don’t know who we are,” Kit shouted over his shoulder. “And there’s no shortage of thieves in this city. As long as we outrun them, they have nothing on us.”

But just as he said it, they turned another corner and the constables were there, only twenty yards away. They hadn’t seen the fugitives yet, but in moments they would.

“Fuck!” Kit spat, but there was laughter in his voice. “Come on, let’s… Look, there’s a tavern. Let’s hide in the beer barrels out back.”

“What?”

But Kit had already started climbing the locked gate. Will hesitated. He had never been a good climber, not with his deformed hand. “Come on!” Kit called, and Will tried to follow him, but the gate was too slick with rain for his feet to find purchase. “Forget it,” he heard Kit mutter from the other side, and for a moment he thought he was being abandoned to the constables, but just then there was a clicking noise in the lock and the gate opened. Pausing for just a moment to lock it up again, Kit took hold of Will’s sleeve and dragged him towards the barrels by the wall.

“Can’t we just hide behind them?” Will asked.

“No, they might be good climbers too.” Kit opened the lid of one barrel and signalled at Will to climb inside.

“But it’s full of beer!”

“Only half full. Come on!”

Will threw a leg over the rim and stepped in. The chilly liquid immediately soaked into his hose. “This can’t be healthy,” he hissed between his teeth as he submerged himself entirely. Some of the beer sloshed over the rim. “And it’s wasteful.”

“The husbandman has spoken,” Kit muttered and climbed in after him. It was all they could do to keep their noses above the surface. Outside the doors, the constables could be heard chattering about them, discussing which way to go. Kit arranged the lid above their heads. The barrel was just big enough for the two of them, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable. Their legs tangled in each other and Will had to keep his head painfully cocked to one side.

“They went in there, I’m sure of it,” one of the constables said. There was a rattling sound from the gate.

“It’s locked.” There was a silence during which Will’s left leg started to cramp. Then the voice of the tavern owner could be heard talking to the constables.

“Oh no…” Will groaned.

“Just keep still,” Kit shushed him. Will attempted to shake his head. It was just too stupid. All this for what? For a couple of books that he didn’t even have with him. He closed his eyes and just breathed, trying to relax despite the cramped conditions. Next to him, he could feel Kit hugging himself.

“Cold?” Will whispered.

“A little,” Kit whispered back, his teeth chattering. Will suppressed an urge to lay an arm around his shoulders. It was impossible in the narrow space anyway. Instead he opened his mouth and swallowed some of the beer they were sitting in.

“Quite good,” he commented.

Kit smothered a giggle. “Yeah… this would be quite nice if the beer was just a bit warmer.”

Their hushed conversation was cut short by the approaching boots of the tavern owner. The constables were let into the yard and they scraped around in the dirt for a while. Then one of them said, “The ground is wet right here.” The voice came from immediately above them. Will held his breath. “Could they be hiding…?” There was a bone-chilling silence. Then two sets of hands gripped the lid and slid it off. Three faces peered down at Will and Kit where they sat.

“Oh, good evening,” Kit greeted them pleasantly, stood up and stretched. Will scrambled out of the barrel, soaked and dripping and embarrassed beyond words. Kit leaned in close and hissed, “The Blackfriars gatehouse in two hours!”

Will frowned. Had Kit finally gone completely insane? “The what?”

“Blackfriars gatehouse.”

“But…”

“Just fuck off, Will! I’ll handle them.”

Will wanted to ask a hundred questions, but Kit was not to be reasoned with. While he took a sudden swing at one of the constables, Will turned on his heel and dashed out of the yard. The surprised men didn’t go after him until after two full seconds, giving him an unlooked-for head start. He veered round a corner and sprinted along the muddy streets, making for God knew where, just running to get away from the law, away from danger, leaving the ruckus behind, leaving his friend in trouble and saving himself.

***

The bell of Saint Paul’s was tolling twelve as Will tiptoed down Shoemakers’ Row, paranoia making him jump at every sound. But the neighbourhood was still once again. Nothing revealed that there had been a disturbance around here just two hours ago.

He had taken the time to nip home in order to change into something a little less damp, and now he was back to honour Kit’s strange rendez-vous. After wandering up and down the street a few times, he stopped outside the only door it could be, but hesitated before going in. The place looked dark and forbidding. Why in the world did Kit want to meet him here?

Well, there was nothing for it. He knocked and entered. A tired-looking man who sat writing in a ledger glanced up. “Yes?”

“Oh, uh… I’m meeting someone hereabouts… Blackfriars gatehouse?”

“You’re in the right place.”

“And… where…?”

“Probably upstairs. Let me show you.” The heavy-set man stood up and proceeded to mount several flights of stairs while Will followed, on edge and mistrustful and wishing that he could just forget the whole thing and go home again. But he refused to stand Kit up.

The housekeeper stopped in front of a door and produced a collection of clanking keys. Will began wondering if he had misunderstood. “Look, I’m not here for that…” But the room inside was empty, not a whore in sight.

“You just wait here, son. The others will be here shortly.”

The others? So this wasn’t just a tryst with Kit: more people were expected? Will stepped inside uneasily. The housekeeper closed the door behind him. For a sickening moment, Will thought he was going to lock it again, but his steps receded and descended the stairs without the key being turned.

Will looked around. It was a spacious chamber, overlooking the street, and it appeared not to have been used for several months. The faint light from the candle that the housekeeper had left revealed heaps of old clothes, broken chairs and rickety tables. There were cobwebs in the rafters and the room had the general atmosphere of a ghost house.

“Hello?”

Will jumped and turned around. A curly-haired young man stood on the threshold. He had opened the door without a sound. “Er… hi…”

The man held out his hand, a comfortingly normal gesture. “I’m Thomas Pope. Who are you?”

“Um, William Shakespeare,” Will replied self-consciously, still unaccustomed to the London way of pronouncing his own name.

“Are you here for the meeting as well?”

“I suppose so.”

“You’re an actor?”

“Not exactly…”

“We’ve got that in common then,” Pope sighed in cheerful resignation. “But we’re all trying to get there, aren’t we?”

He sat down on a chair that almost collapsed under him. Startled, he sprang up again in such a comical way that Will couldn’t stop a brief giggle. For a moment, Pope seemed to waver on the verge of indignation. Then he grinned. “Classy establishment.”

“So… what kind of meeting is this?” Will asked, embarrassed not to know but anxious to find out.

Pope looked amused. “It’s supposed to be something to do with theatre. I heard about it through the grand grapevine of the jobless.” He waved a dramatic hand on the air. “I suppose we crouch here for employment.”

Will grinned at Pope’s elaborate way of speaking.

“So have you had any parts lately?” his new friend asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “I was a guard and a waiting-woman for Leicester’s Men last winter.” He grimaced. “Before that I actually toured with the Queen’s Men. But the big companies are so tight-fisted. They double everything, just to avoid having to pay more actors. So what have you done?”

Will considered mentioning his role in the Twelfth Night prank, but thought better of it. “I’m… a writer.”

Pope stiffened in surprise. “So you’re the one who’s–”

He was interrupted by a young boy poking his head through the door. “This where the actors are supposed to meet?”

“I believe it is. I’m Pope.”

“Christopher.” They shook hands. The boy couldn’t be more than ten years old, but he looked as if he was used to making a living on his own. He had a hare lip and a suspicious demeanour, and his eyes were a startling dark blue.

“Do you know what this is about?” Will asked.

Christopher looked at him like he was insane. “Theatre, innit?”

“Yeah…” Will blushed. He hadn’t meant the question to sound quite so stupid.

The next man to walk into the room was one John Sincler – ‘But call me Sinklo’ – an almost alarmingly thin man who looked like he would break like a twig at the merest touch. His entry was quickly followed by several others, and within minutes the room was filled with would-be actors without a steady income. George Bryan, Richard Cowley, John Duke… Young and eager, all of them, but also growing increasingly bitter, scraping by on a pittance while their talents went to seed.

The last person to arrive was Kit, grinning triumphantly and brushing imaginary dust from his doublet.

“They let you go?” Will was incredulous.

“Not so much ‘let me go’ as ‘were smacked on the fingers by the Queen’,” Kit replied smugly. “I tell you, that woman has a crush on me.”

“But you punched one of them!”

“One of them?” Kit laughed. “Both got a taste of my knuckles. And the tavern owner would have if he’d had the guts to stay.”

“How unnecessary,” Will muttered.

“I just thought ‘Why not?’ Seeing as I would be set free anyway.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Thank you.”

Will noted how everyone in the room, just now ambling about without purpose, were suddenly oriented in one way or another towards Kit. As if he were the North Star and they the wandering barks all setting their course in relation to him. “So what are we all doing here?” Will asked.

Kit looked surprised. “You mean you haven’t figured it out yet? This, my friend, is the future. Look around. They’re all up-and-coming, the future stars of the London stage. Your company. Goodman Shakespeare’s Men.”

“Don’t be daft.”

At this display of weak faith, Kit took Will’s arm and drew him aside. “Look, these fellows are all out of work. They’ll do anything. You write for them, and they will perform it.”

Will stared at him. “Have you heard nothing I’ve said? I don’t have any money, not even to manage my own private expenses. How can I employ anyone?”

“They know all that. They expect nothing but the practise, the chance to prove themselves and get a reputation. And, perhaps, the occasional alms from some dazzled fan with a bursting purse.”

Will glanced around the room, at the expectant, weary faces. These men were desperate, that was obvious.

“You see?” Kit said. “They’ll be performing your stuff for free, because they want to be discovered. You can do anything with them. You don’t have to follow any rules, you don’t even have to write full plays, just interludes. This is your chance to develop your talents for real.”

Will thought he’d never heard Kit speak with such sincerity. “But… where would we do this?”

Kit spread his hands. “Inn yards. Tables in taverns. The street.”

Will could feel his breathing quicken in excitement, but a host of rational objections crowded his mind. “Isn’t that illegal?” he whispered. “I can’t be a patron! I’m nobody.”

Kit shook his head impatiently. “You don’t have to point that out to _me_. But you can write, can’t you? So write for them.”

“We don’t have a master. We’ll be whipped.”

“Within the walls, yes. In the northern suburbs, perhaps. But in Southwark? I don’t think so.”

“But who’s going to watch us there? It’s nothing but brothels and bear pits. None but the poor live there.”

“Exactly. Those who never attend plays, because they can’t afford it. But these men don’t earn anything as it is. And you’ve got your pirating to earn your keep while you whet your talents. So why not take your wares to the audience that can’t pay their way in a proper theatre? They’ll tell you if it’s good or not. If it’s funny or sad. I bet the nut-throwers in the suburbs are as good shots as their finer cousins in the city.”

Will gnawed at his nether lip, wanting to be persuaded but fearing it in equal measure. “I tell you, we’ll be arrested.”

Kit smiled. “Only if you’re stupid enough to get caught.”

“But…”

“London is a big city. It can swallow more entertainment than is currently available. So fill that hole, Will. Give drama to the lowest of the lowlifes. You’ll learn nothing if you stay with the government approved companies, copying the work of lesser men. Hone your ability until you have what it takes. Then you write for Edward and the Admiral’s Men. You’ll shoot up like a star out of nowhere, like I did.”

Will looked at Kit. “You started like this?”

“No, but I should have. I was just lucky.”

“University educated.”

“That too. But I didn’t learn the gritty realities of the theatre at Cambridge, I can tell you that. Why do you think Tom got there before me? He had to fight for it. He had his ear to the ground. Now I’m offering you the same thing. Your own playground, as it were.”

Will was suddenly aware of his heart, pounding loudly, reverberating through the room like the wings of a giant bird. This was Kit’s gift to him. He had no rational reason to do it, no duties towards Will, and yet he had assembled this group just for him. It took Will’s breath away. “But why…?” He searched Kit’s face, and Kit averted his eyes.

“Well…” He chuckled thinly. “You told me you wanted a company.”

Will stared at him. “Jesus, I don’t know what to say…”

Kit shrugged. “A simple ‘thank you’ will serve.”

“Thank you…” Will held out his hand, since it felt like the right thing to do. Formal, business-like. But when Kit took it – after just a moment’s hesitation – it felt equal to a slap: Kit gave him a whole troupe, and all Will could do was shake his hand? “Come here.” He reached out and pulled Kit towards him in a tight embrace. Kit staggered a little in surprise and then returned the hug, his arms warm and strong beneath his doublet as he squeezed Will’s body against his own.

“Everything doesn’t have to happen in broad daylight, you know,” he whispered. A sharp pulse travelled through Will’s chest and set his face on fire. Then Kit stepped away, winked at him, and walked out.

Will swallowed and turned around, back to the fifteen-odd expectant faces all looking at him, waiting for his orders.

 _My company_.


	7. Chorus: 1616

“Smoke?”

His bedroom took form behind his fluttering lashes. For a moment he thought the shadowy figure who held a pipe towards him was Kit. But then he opened his eyes fully and saw that it was Richard who was sitting by his bed in the glooming peace of his morning bedroom, offering oblivion by tobacco. So he was still alive, then. His friends had somehow managed to haul him up the stairs and put him to bed like the old drunk he was.

“Go on,” Richard urged.

Will blinked and groaned. The clay gleamed so white and pure in the grey daylight seeping in through the windows – beckoning, whispering of memories long gone, but he mustn’t. Shaking his head, he sighed. “I’d better not. Doctor Hall told me I have water in my lungs.”

“Water?” Richard raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

 _Yes. I’m finally drowning. Poetic justice, if ever there was such a thing._ Aloud, he said, “I know. Preposterous notion, but you know doctors. It’s always the elements with them.”

“So drive it out with fire,” Richard smiled.

Will made a face. “Oh, what the hell.” He took it and stuck it between his lips. Breathing in deeply, he let its familiar warmth fill his body, let the genies whisper sweet impossibilities in his ears. As if the souls of the departed lived in the smoke.

And at once he remembered why he’d hesitated. He didn’t want to feel it. Not like this. Gasping, he fought down the aching lump in his throat and waved the pipe at Richard, urging him to take it back. “Please…”

Richard took it hurriedly, concern evident on his face. Something vaguely reminiscent of a sob rose in Will’s throat and he swallowed it down. _I’m not going to cry._ His numb limbs ached with the effort to fight the threatening waters – the spring flood, crashing through barriers, sweeping away all in its path. _It’s been twenty-three years, for God’s sake!_

Richard reached for the mug of water by his bed. Despite his turmoil, Will made a face at him. “You want me to get the sweating sickness or what? Give me ale.”

“If you can afford to be that picky, I think you’re on the mend,” Richard smiled. It was a fake smile and phoney encouragement, but Will appreciated the gesture. _No need to trouble yourself with thoughts of God yet_ , it seemed to say. _You still have a few hours to be a blaspheming son of a bitch._

But the end could come quickly, life had taught him that much, and the man who didn’t make his peace with God in time got no second chances.

Still, he had to pretend, for Richard’s sake. “Yeah, I feel great, actually,” he said, gulping down the ale Richard offered him. “Thought I’d start a new play this afternoon… Venus and Adonis, you know?”

Richard chuckled, playing along in the charade they both needed. “You’re incorrigible. Wasn’t it enough to publish that scandalous poem?”

“No, no, I think the audiences would flock to a stage adaption,” Will smiled. “At least it should be enough blood and guts and pornography for their Protestant tastes.”

“Even for noblemen’s houses,” Richard laughed.

Sobering up, Will swallowed another mouthful of ale. “Well, I’m not writing for them.” He frowned into his mug, visions of Oxford’s townhouse clouding his mind.

Unaware of his gloomy thoughts, Richard said, “King James would certainly appreciate the lack of decorum. He did seem rather intrigued by _As You Like It_ , you’ll remember.”

“Hmh.” Will breathed a deep sigh and closed his eyes in a futile attempt to shut out the memory of that play. He had written it as a gift – as the fulfilment of a promise to the departed, a humble package to be carried by the ferryman to the other side.

_At least I did what I promised. Never mind that it came ten years too late._

A small silence threatened to grow, to fill the room and suffocate them. Before it gained too much force, Richard hastened to break it. “So, Venus and Adonis. Tell me the outline.”

_That’s what you should have made into a play, not the two sissies of Verona…_

Will shook his head at the insistent voice in his head, so full of laughter and mischief and deception. But Kit had been right. What a spectacle that would have been. Full of music and sound effects and colour, Venus coming down from the ceiling in all her glory, wearing a gown of fake flowers where birds would nest. Adonis would be played by the prettiest youth that could be found, a manling with body straight as a rod, golden hair and ruddy lips. Everyone would fall hopelessly in love with him and then they would be left with nothing when he was run through by a boar’s tusk.

_Straight through the eye._

“I thought you’d stopped writing?”

Starting, they both looked up. Susanna was standing in the doorway, looking at Will, her arms crossed and her blue eyes hard. “What’s it to you if I write?” he shot back, guilt making him needlessly aggressive. “I’ve done it my whole life, why should I stop now?”

“Because it’s making you crazy.” She walked over to his desk by the window and picked up a sheet. Seeing it, Will was reminded of the figure that had shadowed him and his friends last night. He had imagined for a moment that the stranger had carried his plays with him: an echo from happier times…

“ _See how in shades of purple he as she on rosy beds in myrtle groves will be_ ,” Susanna read from the sheet. “Really, father. It’s not even legible!”

 _Then how come you’re reading it?_ Will didn’t ask. He just stared at the sheet in her hand, too tired to answer, too sick of hearing about his bad handwriting, his farfetched metaphors and skittish mind. Those lines were just notes, jotted down before he forgot them. He wasn’t planning on printing them in that condition, for God’s sake.

In a sudden fit of rage, he got out of bed and ripped the paper from her hand. “Go stoke the fire, girl.” It gave him some satisfaction to see that he could still scare her into obedience, but the underlying taunt of those damned blue eyes got under his skin. She didn’t know, of course. Nobody did but his wife and Dick Field. And there was no reason Will should care. His son was dead, so there was no one to continue his name. Judith’s decision to name her child Shakespeare if it turned out to be a boy was a small recompense, but not a lasting one. So his name was dying anyway, and even if Susanna had been his, her marriage ended any proof of it.

He sighed. Susanna was only his ward. A noble enterprise, but it hadn’t always been easy, seeing her grow into a miniature version of her father under Will’s roof. Still, he had loved her as well as he could. Had loved his wife, too. It was just that everything else was eclipsed by that one star…

While Susanna tended to the grate, Will scanned the sheet he had taken from her. Now that he saw it with her eyes, he was aghast at the contents. There was too much truth in there, even if no one else could see it. He as she. Shades of purple. Rosy beds. The words were shot through with filthy, ancient lust, like dried blood on a blade.

Who would have thought the old man had so much ink in him? Who would have thought he even had the experience to spill it? It was pure dumb luck that Susanna took his heartfelt lines for senile ramblings, and not the naked, damnable truth.


	8. 1588

Despite having lived in London for almost half a year, Will had never seen the inside of the Rose when it was empty. As the great doors swung open and he was the first to step inside, it looked very different. Asleep. No crowd milling about, no cracking nuts, no gallants smoking on the balcony. Instead an oppressive silence hung about the place, as if the world had yet to be created.

He looked around. Rows of seats, empty of occupants. Sturdy beams, the backbone of the house. A faint breeze, playing with a forgotten ostrich feather in the gravel of the pit. And high above them, beneath the squeaks of darting swifts, the lonely fluttering of the painted flag.

Within moments, however, the building was bustling with props, rolls, costumes and people shouting to each other. Carpenters got to work while boys shovelled away old bear dung and strewed fresh rushes on yesterday’s dried blood stains. Musicians, scribes, wardrobe men, stage hands – they all had their own task, kept to their own path. The playhouse was transformed into a giant anthill, but there was logic to the seeming insanity.

“You just keep out of the way for the time being, okay?” Kit said and patted his shoulder. “You’ll learn the ropes soon enough.” He bounded off towards the stage and took his natural place at the centre of attention to give the actors their rolls, much like Will did every week with his own ragged crew.

His troupe of unemployed men had taken to meeting once a week at the Blackfriars gatehouse, and each time he brought a new scene for them to rehearse and perform at some back alley inn or brothel. Small interludes, disconnected speeches, things that he wasn’t sure would work out, that needed to be read aloud by someone. And without the trappings of the theatre, without sound effects and gaudy costumes, everything relied on the words. What Will couldn’t paint with language didn’t even exist. The actors worked for scraps in the suburbs of London, out of sight of the authorities. They stood on scarred old tavern tables and read his verse, and they had nothing to help them but his and their own imaginations. And yet somehow they managed to create magic, to make the whores weep and the ruffians gape.

Kit jumped down from the stage. “Hey, Peter, can’t you do that later? Your damned banging is disrupting the talent!”

The carpenter currently employed in mending the sturdy fence looked over his shoulder with a sour face. Sweat was pouring down his neck in the sweltering heat. “It has to be done by three o’clock,” he growled.

“Well, just keep the hammering to a fucking minimum.” Kit rolled his eyes at Will. “See what we have to put up with? No better than the taverns where your boys perform, I imagine.”

Will grimaced at the memory of their latest venue, a run-down inn where the poor actors had hardly made themselves heard through the raucous brawling of the drunkards. Not a place for poetic speeches. They had applauded the bloodshed, though, and were very impressed by the realistic effect of Pope squeezing a sponge filled with pig’s blood under his arm before dying. They would certainly love what was happening onstage right now: Augustine and another actor were performing a complicated swordfight. Even Will found himself reluctantly mesmerised by what was, after all, a mere rehearsal. But rehearsal or no, both actors were deep in concentration, and the show lacked none of the intensity of a premiere. One moment, Augustine would be bending to one side, shying away from his enemy’s sword and completely off balance, only to miraculously regain his feet the very next moment, and then he’d suddenly spin round to offer his opponent a taste of his own blade.

Aware of Kit looking at him, Will had to force himself to continue watching the actors, but soon the fight-dance ended and the characters that were just now in the heat of battle evaporated. Augustine was just Augustine again, wiping his forehead with an elegant flick of the wrist, and Will had no excuse not to address Kit anymore. “I’d like to write something for him…” he murmured, eyes averted.

Kit nodded. “He’s formidable, isn’t he? Completely body conscious all the time. Even if he just sits down on a chair, he does it with such… _precision_. Usually, he’s even better than this. I think he’s not feeling very well, he gets a bit clumsy, you see? Otherwise, he’s quite the acrobat, although Kempe doesn’t really give him the space.”

“Fascinating,” Will agreed. “He moves like a… a…”

“Like a cat.”

“A cat! Yes…”

Edward clapped his hands from his place in the wings. “Okay, same scene again!”

Augustine snapped into character as if his own personality had never existed. “ _What, dares the villain speak in…_ no, sorry. Again. _What, dares the villain write in such base terms?_ ” His antagonist was about to reply, but was interrupted by Augustine suddenly staggering to the side of the stage to throw up.

“That’s disgusting!” Edward exclaimed. “What did you eat?”

“Nothing, I only had a mad dog,” Augustine confessed. He attempted a grin, but was cut short by the second coming of his liquid breakfast. He turned very white.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” Edward complained, cherub face all scrunched up with annoyance.

“I went to bed early. At four o’clock in the morning!” Augustine laughed weakly and sat down, resting his head on his knees.

“Come on, Augustine,” Edward urged. “Whitehall’s tomorrow. We have to learn this.”

Augustine rubbed his face with both hands and moaned softly.

Kit made a sudden movement. “Will can do it!”

Will went rigid. “What?”

“You’re a good speaker, I know you are. This is your chance to stand on a real stage!”

“But…” Will wanted to refuse, but one look at Augustine was enough: he lay on his side, retching and burping to the cruel amusement of his friends. “Alright…”

“Come on!” Kit tugged at Will’s arm, and he followed him reluctantly onstage. “Okay, this is the roll, you’re Lodowick. Let’s do… oh, I know, do the bit where he comes in with Abigail!”

Augustine’s fellow player was on the verge of objecting, but thought better of it. He left the stage with a shrug, and the boy who played Abigail took his place. “Hi, Alexander Cooke at your service, nice to meet you, let’s get intimate then,” he grinned, one tooth missing from an otherwise perfect row.

“Hello…” Will looked the youth over, took in his bland pixie features, a canvas for heroines of any kind to be painted on. A much better face than Will’s own.

“Go ahead,” Kit shouted from the pit. Will received the roll from Augustine and scanned the scene in a matter of moments. The writing was handsome and clean. His own copies were shameful by comparison.

Drawing a deep breath, he dropped the roll and addressed Edward. “ _Barabas, is not that the widow’s son?_ ”

“ _Ay, and take heed, for he hath sworn your death_ ,” Edward read, voice deeper and richer now that he was no longer himself.

“ _My death?_ ” Will exclaimed, sounding like the bumbling amateur he was. “ _What, is the base-born peasant mad?_ ”

The dialogue went on without a hitch and Will glanced just once at Kit, flushed and expectant below them, as if waiting for something in particular.

“ _This is thy diamond_ ,” Will gestured towards Alexander. “ _Tell me, shall I have it?_ ”

“ _Win it, and wear it,_ ” Edward answered. “ _It is yet unfoiled_.”

“Good, good,” Kit interrupted. “But you must _show_ your emotion, Will, like this.” He made a complicated gesture with his head and hands. It looked hilarious and Will couldn’t help laughing. “Alright, you show him then, Alexander.”

Alexander repeated the motion and Will tried to imitate him, but obviously looked as comical as Kit, because there was some sniggering from the wings and Edward made an exasperated face. Kit lost patience and jumped onto the stage to give directions in a more hands-on way. “They’re one and the same motion, Will. As you turn to look at her – not so quickly! – you also bring your hand up like this.” He took hold of Will’s hand and raised it to his heart. The motion brought them closer together, and their breaths mingled in the humid air. “And then you make this kind of writhing movement with your upper body…” Kit put his hands on both sides of Will’s chest and made him turn slowly. Will’s cheeks were burning with the intimacy of the touch, even though it should be perfectly innocent. Embracing a friend was no big deal. Why did Kit make everything strange?

Or maybe it was the stifling heat that turned Will’s head. The weather was decidedly bizarre for May. He looked up at the circular hole which was the playhouse’s version of a roof, and prayed for the gathering clouds to bring some cool relief. But if anything, the air seemed to grow even more oppressive.

“Okay, now continue,” Kit ordered and sat down to watch them as they stumbled through the scene, Will completely out of his depth, his back sticky with sweat.

“ _Farewell, I must be gone_ ,” Alexander sobbed convincingly at the end of their brief exchange and took a step away from Will.

“ _Stay her_ ,” Edward cried out, and Will caught Alexander’s hand in mid-air. “ _But let her not speak one word more_.”

“And now, the kiss!” Kit urged from below. Alexander didn’t hesitate. He leaned towards Will and smothered him with his chapped lips without so much as a blink. Will recoiled a little, to the hilarity of the other actors.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,” he mumbled.

“Well, neither did I,” Alexander grinned. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Probably not, since I’m not planning on becoming an actor,” Will said sullenly. He glanced at Kit, which made Alexander cock his head and smile. Will was just about to snap that he meant what he said, when a loud bang from above interrupted him. For a moment he thought that someone had dropped the sheet of metal used for sound effects, but one look at the heavens banished that thought. It was a real thunderstorm, and it was upon them.

Scrambling for cover in the sudden downpour, they forgot the rolls, but Will darted back for them and came running to the others with his arms full. Only a few splotches of mud covered the paper and some lines had started to run, but thanks to his quick thinking the text was still legible. Kit looked at them and grinned. “One more minute and they would have looked like one of yours, pup.”

***

The rain didn’t let up. When the Rose pit started turning into a soggy mess, Will went home to catch up on his reading. Browsing the thumbed wares at a used book market a few weeks back, he had chanced on a love poem by some guy named Brooke. It seemed catchy enough and it was cheap, so he had bought it on a whim. Now that he perused the story more closely, his attention was caught by the character of Tybalt, who was ‘of body tall and strong’. He should really be working on _Henry VI_ , of course, or on a piece for his street crew, not on something that might never make it to performance. But Tybalt seemed like such fun. He was perfect for Augustine, and he was a hothead, so it would be possible to include lots of exciting fights where the actor could give his physical talents free rein.

And what of this Mercutio fellow? In the poem, he simply appeared as a foil to Romeus. He made his exit minutes after his entrance, as if afraid of the attention. But Will could probably think of a way to make him matter to the story too, so that more actors could be used. His quill hovered above the paper, hesitating. He just couldn’t think sitting down. Maybe he should go for a–

“Step away from the dead bird!”

Will started and made a blot in the middle of Mercutio’s name. Turning, he felt warmth bleed into his chest at the sight of Kit in the doorway. God only knew how he had managed to sneak up without so much as a creak from the old staircase. “Jesus Christ, Kit!” Will exclaimed. “Look what you made me do.”

Kit laughed, pleased with the effect of his entrance. “The difference from your usual pristine copies is shocking. Come on, you’ve spent too much time already poring over some stuffy old book.”

“I’m writing!”

Kit ambled over to Will’s desk and peered down at his interrupted work. “Writing? Hmh. Pornography, I see.”

“What?”

Kit picked up an orphaned sheet between his thumb and forefinger, holding it aloft like a piece of evidence, a mock-disgusted expression on his face. “ _If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine_ …” he read from it. “Really, Will!”

“What?” Will said again, but blushed at the sudden realisation that there was a double meaning to the word ‘hand’.

“Gotcha,” Kit grinned. “And ‘holy shrine’! Well, of all the metaphors for orifice…”

“Oh, come on, you know it’s not meant like that…”

“And look at this, _two blushing pilgrims ready stand_ … I bet they do, you old goat!”

“It’s supposed to be romantic…”

“Tut, tut. _Lips that they must use in prayer…_ kneeling, no doubt?”

“Kneeling?”

“Yes. Worshipping the throbbing trident of Poseidon.”

Will fought down a shocked laugh.

“ _And_ you’ve copied me.”

“What? Never…”

“ _Give me my soul again…_?”

Will was about to shake his head and retort something scathing, when he realised that yes, it was actually a stolen line, filched from an impromptu tavern reading of a half-finished Faustus. How could he have missed it? He, who remembered everything!

Then again, why shouldn’t he use it? Words were free. “I’ll… I’ll change it, I…”

Kit grinned and dropped the sheet, sure of his success and no longer interested in arguing about it. “I’ve hired a boat.”

“Oh?”

“We’re going on a little outing, you and I.”

“But the rain…”

“… has stopped long since.”

Will looked out through his grimy little window and saw an orange evening sun gilding the neighbourhood roofs. It was beautiful. He would be a fool to turn Kit down. At the same time, he feared going with him. “Can I at least finish this scene?” he stalled. “I’m not sure how long I can keep it in my head.”

Kit stamped his foot and whined like a child.

Will laughed and shook his head. “Alright… I suppose it’ll keep until tonight.”

“Quite so.” Kit was immediately pacified. “And if you’ve forgotten it by then, it wasn’t superb enough to begin with, so good riddance!”

***

The boat lay bobbing by its moorings on the daunting grey of the Thames, and it rocked precariously as Will stepped into it. The worn planks that made up its hull looked more than a tad fragile. “We’ll be crushed,” he laughed nervously. “Did I tell you I’m not a good swimmer?”

“Several times. Now sit down. You’re not supposed to drown before we leave the shore.” Kit undid the ropes and pushed the boat out. A gentle current took hold of them and slowly carried them towards the middle of the river. Kit occasionally dipped an oar into the water to guide the boat in the right direction, but he didn’t have to exert himself. The Thames was strong, if a bit slow.

“We could have brought Richard…” Will began and immediately stopped. It was a very rude thing to say.

Kit looked at him in a mockery of hurt. “We don’t need _Richard_ to have a good time.” He said the name as though it tasted sour. Will swallowed and looked out over the glinting water. It felt strange to be alone out here with Kit, as if they were breaking some unspoken rule. But who could possibly take offence at two friends and colleagues taking a trip on the river together?

“So… I think puppy got a taste for acting this afternoon,” Kit said.

“Why are you so eager to see me don a disguise and kiss boys on stage?” Will asked irritably.

“The answer is in the question,” Kit purred. “And if I like watching you, why shouldn’t everyone else?”

Will’s cheeks burned a little and he gazed towards the fast-receding shore, where distant fires twinkled in the shadows of backyards. The boat picked up speed and the ride became a little rougher, causing their knees to touch as the bark lurched to one side.

“Besides,” Kit went on, “You’re a social climber if ever I saw one. And the fastest way to reach court is by weaselling your way in together with a company of players.”

Will snorted. “Yeah, that’s really good advice, Kit. The best way to climb socially is willingly to debase yourself, because you get to see the Queen in the bargain – only she has no respect for you because you’re there in the guise of an actor?”

Kit shrugged. “Take the Children of St Paul’s. She loved them, and they were only boys. What then could a _man_ achieve?”

The way he said ‘man’ sent an uncomfortable shiver down Will’s spine. Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “A man like Richard.”

“Quit harping on about Richard, will you?” Kit lashed out. “Why don’t you marry the guy if he’s so great?”

Will glared at him. Kit was right to be angry, but Will had changed the subject to save his own hide – though from what, he wasn’t sure. “He’s my friend, just like you are,” he mumbled. “You can’t make me choose between you.”

Kit snorted and sat in sulky silence for a few moments. Then he laughed and waved his hand. “That’s so not what I’m talking about. You think I’m in love with you, or what?” He gazed at Will with a grin full of lewd promise. When Will averted his eyes, Kit shook his head. “I don’t live life according to some rulebook, like you do.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“No? I know more about you than you do yourself.”

At that moment, the current gripped the boat violently, almost tipping it. Without thinking, Will grabbed Kit’s knee. Kit didn’t shake him off, just looked away and smiled.

“Have you done this before?” Will asked, beginning to wonder whether this had been such a very good idea.

“Never. But I’ve always wanted to.”

The water rushed by on both sides, spraying their faces. The houses on the banks became blurred. Will’s heart turned upside down in his chest. The air was sucked out of his body as they shot towards their destiny. He felt drunk. His thoughts tumbled around in his head, like his bowels tumbled around in his belly. He had never experienced speed like this. When he tried to speak, only a muffled sound escaped his mouth. He could hear nothing but the roaring waters. He could see nothing but the froth dashing against the stern. He could smell nothing but the vague saltiness from the distant sea. Their little bark began shaking and shuddering. The hull creaked. They were close to the Bridge now, and he could see the boiling waters ahead, ready to engulf them. It swished and swirled and shrieked at them, furious at their audacity in coming here, to invade the watery kingdom of the river god. The boat hit the torrents and jumped several yards before spinning round and hurtling towards oblivion. Will had no idea where they were going, what was up or down. He was only vaguely aware that they passed the actual Bridge, and he directed a silent prayer at a God who probably shook His head in exasperation at the foolishness of his subjects.

But things quieted down and it seemed that they had made it to the other side. Kit was laughing happily, the wind tossing his hair this way and that. Then suddenly the boat tipped to one side and Will was thrown off balance. The cold Thames hit him in the face, stung like ice on his skin. Surprised, he drew a breath – and the water rushed into his mouth, his nose, his throat. He gagged, and a spasm shook his ribcage. Flailing his arms, he struggled to reach the surface. He gulped for air, but was sucked under again.

The next thing he knew was a strong arm round his neck. The water pulled at his legs, but its grip lessened and gave him up to another force which tugged him towards the shore. Then blackness covered his eyes and he slipped away someplace where everything was easy and no one wanted anything from him.

His body shook. Water squirted from his mouth and sprinkled his face with warm droplets. A deep breath that somehow wasn’t his own tickled his lungs. His stomach muscles clenched and more water was pushed up through his throat. Light from the evening sky seeped in through his eyelids and he saw the black silhouette of someone leaning over him.

“Kit…” His voice snagged on something in his throat and he coughed violently. Kit put an arm around his neck and helped him sit up. Will doubled over and succumbed to the fit for what seemed like several minutes. When he could finally speak, he rasped, “What happened?”

“You went to Hades and back.” Despite his jaunty tone, Kit’s voice revealed the aftermath of genuine terror. “What was it like?”

“Wet,” Will croaked.

Kit smiled tentatively and reached out to stroke a moist lock of hair from Will’s face. “You’d be dead if it weren’t for me,” he said.

Will rolled his eyes. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have got into that bloody boat in the first place.” He tried to stand up, but was overcome with a strange weakness and had to sit down again.

“Still, I gave you your life back,” Kit said. “I don’t owe you anymore.”

Will nodded feebly, acknowledging the deed. “What did you do?” He gestured towards his throat. “How did you…?”

“Oh…” Kit hesitated. “When I was a boy – when my brother was born, he… well, he didn’t breathe, and the midwife blew into his nose. He lived.”

Will frowned. “You blew into my nose?”

“Not exactly…”

Will held his breath. There was something about Kit’s eyes. They looked hungry somehow, as if Will were the prey and Kit the predator, crouching to pounce on the innocent young Adonis. As the thought crossed Will’s mind, Kit suddenly leaned forward and touched Will’s lips with his own – _kissed_ him, as if that were a perfectly normal thing to do. At first it felt like a short peck, nothing but a friendly gesture, but then Kit’s lips lingered, asking for permission to do more. A surprised flicker of interest sucked all the strength from Will’s limbs. Still faint from his recent brush with death and unable to muster any resistance, he relaxed into Kit’s embrace and let himself be kissed. His eyes closed and his consciousness filled with the taste and smell and feel of his friend, the traces of tobacco on his tongue, the faint creaking sound from his leather doublet, the hotness of his breath and the coolness of his lips.

Then a hand touched Will’s thigh and he recoiled abruptly. As he blinked, the world seemed full of contrasts, all the contours sharp against a pale evening sky. “I’m not sure…” he began, shivering from the intimate touch. Kit gazed at him without speaking. They sat like that, Will shrinking like some terror-stricken Mary in front of God’s chosen angel, until Kit suddenly shook off whatever lapse of sanity had made him do it and stood up.

“See you around then.”

“Wait! I just…”

Kit stopped and waited for Will to finish. When he failed to find the appropriate words, Kit turned his back to him. “Go home and dry off. You’ll catch a cold.”


	9. Chapter 9

Will didn’t go home. The mere thought of mounting the stairs alone, locking the door and lying down in his cold, empty bed with only his own mind for company was too daunting. Instead he walked along the Thames, watching the twilight start to deepen, trying to keep warm despite his soaked clothes. Here, two hundred yards upstream, the roar of the maelstrom down by Tower Bridge was barely audible. The river was a completely different beast up here, a sleek and purring kitten where just now it had been a raging tiger. It seemed calm, inviting… safe.

But the depth was immeasurable.

He had almost drowned today. He tried saying it out loud to himself: “I almost drowned today.” But the words meant nothing. They had nothing to do with him. Something had happened, and he could dress the event in sounds, but there was a chasm between those feeble syllables and the actual reality of the black nothing that had prepared to welcome him. No heavenly light had shone down on him, no fatherly hand had stretched out to take his. Instead it was Kit’s hand that had saved him from certain death. Claiming that he had only returned a favour.

_If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine…_

Will’s mind baulked at the conclusion to the sonnet he had been composing just hours before. Their acquaintance had begun with the meeting of hands, and had ended with a kiss.

Yes, ended. There was no way he could continue socialising with such a man.

He quickened his step, making for St Leonard’s Church, even though he knew that it lay close to Kit’s lodgings. Entering the churchyard, he slackened his pace and strolled with forced ease among the gravestones, only vaguely aware that this was where he would have ended up but for the resourceful intervention of his friend. The evening sun tipped the trees with copper and flooded the lawn with its magical glow. Here, shielded from the bustle of the Shoreditch streets, he was reminded of the woods of his childhood, full of elves and witches and outlaws, where every myth and legend came to life, where anything could happen. In a place like this it was easy to believe in anything. Even in love.

He had met Agnes in a graveyard. She had been there to visit her dead father, and Will had sat by his sister’s stone, trying to compose a poem. The fine dew of that September afternoon had settled in Agnes’s dark hair, like droplets in a spider’s net, and he had fallen helplessly. She hadn’t told him her name. He had only learned it when Dick came home to visit.

But Dick had called her Anne.

Will sat down heavily and leaned on a large monument. Agnes, Anne… They were just variants of the same name, much like Marley was a form of Marlowe. But in a time wracked by religious strife, connotations were of the utmost importance, and Anne was a proper Protestant name. Which explained Dick’s penchant for it.

Will covered his eyes, tried to conjure her face from memory. She was the reason he was even here. She had persuaded him to go try his luck in the capital: it had been her idea that he approach Dick.

Well, that was like her. Any excuse to take that traitor’s name in vain.

Will clenched his teeth. It wasn’t her fault. She had never pretended to love him. She had only accepted his offer of marriage to escape the social stigma of unwed motherhood. When he had proposed, she had warned him not to get his hopes up about the physical side of their union, and he had bowed his head and vowed to bear it. He had even slept in a chair instead of their conjugal bed, just to make her at ease.

But in the end, she had melted. In the end, she had taken his hand and guided it to her heart, and they had created the twins – a charming little couplet to eclipse the daughter Dick had left behind.

Will looked up into the darkening sky, studded with newly lit stars like the jewels on Kit’s costly jerkin.

Kit…

He shook his head. This was all just a mad dream. Kissing among men was common enough.

And yet, and yet…

His thoughts circled the impossible events of the day like ravens on a battlefield. The kiss had not been friendly in the sense that it was devoid of sexual intent. He wasn’t such a fool that he couldn’t feel the difference. He shivered, but wasn’t cold any longer. It was a feeling he had almost forgotten, but he wouldn’t mention it even to himself. Giving it a name might make it real.

As real as the poems by Catullus.

***

_Deep in his reading, Will didn’t notice that he had company until his swinging foot caught in Master Jenkins’s boot. He looked up. The teacher was standing right next to him. Will scrambled from his seat and grabbed hold of the forgotten broom, trying to feign ardour. Master Jenkins bit down on a smile._

_“This floor must be really dirty if you need three hours to clean it.”_

_“I’m sorry, I’m just about done.” Will hurriedly pushed the broom across the classroom floor, his awkward adolescent limbs getting in the way at every step. He returned to the window, his eye fixed on the non-existent dust at his feet._

_Master Jenkins put out a hand and stopped him. “Don’t your parents wonder where you are?”_

_“They know that I help out,” Will murmured. “And I’m always late.”_

_“So I’ve noticed.” Master Jenkins glanced at the abandoned book lying by the window. “If you want I could lend it to you. You don’t have to sit here and read.”_

_Will lowered his head in embarrassment. Master Jenkins had already given him Metamorphoses. He couldn’t possibly accept another gift. Scrambling to explain why he was here, he said, “They’re… um, kind of stingy about candles at home.”_

_“And you think I’m not?”_

_Will shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry…”_

_“Besides, it’s kind of cold here, don’t you think?”_

_“I…”_

_Master Jenkins blew out the candle and held the door open. Will shuffled out of the classroom and walked down the stairs in silence. Once outside, Master Jenkins stopped and fiddled with his gloves. Snowflakes were falling from a dark sky and Will glared at them morosely, holding them personally responsible for all the misfortunes of his young life._

_“Look… um…” Master Jenkins wavered. “Why don’t you come home with me for a while? You can have some mulled wine.”_

_Will stared stupidly at his teacher. He didn’t know if it was the cold or the unexpected invitation that made him shiver._

_Master Jenkins saw his predicament and frowned. “On second thoughts, maybe you should be getting home. It’s rather late.”_

_“No! I mean… I could stay for a while if… if it’s no trouble…?”_

_Master Jenkins hesitated, bit his lip. “Not at all,” he said. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it, but… you can’t stay for very long. It’s a weekday night, after all.”_

***

Surfacing from the memory, Will rubbed his forehead. No good could come of remembering that night. But his mind was boisterous and awake, and it needed something to mull on, to distract it. So he grasped at scraps of poetry, hoping to light on something that could occupy his disobedient thoughts. Maybe the Romeus play?

He was in a graveyard. What could he do with that? Juliet was laid in a tomb. He would need some poetry to convey the feeling of the place. He looked around. Under the trees, wild peaseblossom and mustard flowers were twinkling faintly, the bright pink and sunny yellow of their petals subdued by the darkening shadows. By day their pretty faces must soothe the hearts of mourners gathered here, but in the falling dusk they might as well be evil sprites. Everything seemed different and somehow more dangerous in darkness. Juliet, waking up in such a place, at such a time, would surely run mad with fear? A young girl, however practical and no-nonsense, must take it to heart…

The distant sound of the curfew bell jolted him out of his reverie. He stood up quickly. Why had he gone to such a dismal place? No good thoughts could come out of it. Time to go home, to change out of these drenched clothes…

Rounding the corner of the church, he was no longer alone. In the golden afterglow of a setting sun he could see the unmistakable figure of Kit, caught up in a sensual embrace with someone. Will stopped in his tracks and then quickly retreated into the shadows of the church. Straining his eyes, he could make out the faint silhouette of the other person.

It was a young man.

His stomach clenched. Unable to tear himself away from the sight, he watched Kit’s limbs move under his jerkin, bathed in shades of burnished copper. The recent memory of his lips was hot and cold on Will’s mouth, and something in his hose stiffened like an unruly fist. Kit and his consort parted a little and Will saw that the younger man was Alexander. He shuddered in his damp shirt. He had been so close to danger. It would have been so easy just to go with Kit wherever he led, but Will had resisted the temptation and escaped. Now it was this youth instead who stepped right into the treacherous pool of Kit’s charisma and was pulled under.

 _I’m saved,_ he thought, but it didn’t feel like being saved. It felt like being wrecked, like a worthless boat…

He clenched his teeth. _This will make a good sonnet._

***

Totally knackered, two hours of creative walking behind him, he finally dragged himself up the darkling stairs to his room. The actual writing would have to wait until morning, of course, but hopefully nothing would be lost in sleep. He felt for his key and was relieved to find it immediately. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind that it might have slipped out during his little swim. He had had more luck than he deserved. Fumbling with the key, he didn’t notice that someone was sitting on the top step. He practically stumbled over him before he realised that it was Kit.

“Hi there,” Kit yawned, stretching drowsily. Will said nothing, just stared. Kit chuckled and stood up, brushing the dust from his hose. “Can I come in?”

“At this hour?”

“Well…”

Will hesitated. He should tell Kit to leave immediately, to go home, to sleep it off. But his lodgings were in Shoreditch, outside the wall. Kit wouldn’t be allowed to pass the gate. If Will didn’t let him in, he would have to sleep on the stairs.

_And where will he sleep if I do let him in?_

Hands cramping, he struggled with the lock. He hadn’t escaped after all. Here he was again, caught in the magic circle of this evil sprite sent to damn him.

But Kit was chattering as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Actually, I brought wine. As a kind of peace offering, I suppose. Or maybe a bribe.”

Will glared at the bottle. “For what?”

“Well…” Kit made a guilty face. “It appears Augustine wasn’t just hung over. He’s come down with a sudden fever, and we’re doing _The Jew_ at Whitehall tomorrow. And seeing as you’re a bit of a whizz at learning lines, and we don’t really have an understudy who can do it…”

“Don’t or won’t?” Will asked, but reluctantly took the roll that Kit held out towards him – he wanted to say no, but his body had a life of its own. He gestured at Kit to step inside, then went in after him and closed the door on the real world out there. For a full minute, he managed to busy himself with lighting a candle. His hands shook with the cold.

“It’s only a few scenes, then you die,” Kit was saying, looking around the room as it flickered to life in the aura of the tiny flame. “I’ll rehearse it with you if you like. Oh… you’re all damp!”

“I haven’t been home since…”

“Oh.” Kit eyed him curiously. “Maybe you should…?”

“I suppose I should.” Will undid the lacing on his doublet and removed it along with his shirt. Kit’s eyes were on him the whole time, and Will’s hand almost started cramping again as he hung the garments on a chair to dry.

“What about your hose?”

Will kept them on.

Kit held out his pipe. “Smoke?”

Will looked at it suspiciously. “What will it do to me?”

“Nothing that you don’t want it to.”

Will wavered. He could still chuck Kit out. Or he could smoke whatever was in that pipe and let everything go. If he chose the first alternative, he could look forward to a sober and lonely night filled with confusing nightmares. If he went for the second one, there was no telling what might happen.

“At least it’ll warm you up…”

“Oh, what the hell.” Will grabbed the pipe and stuck it between his lips. Kit lit it for him, his eyes focused on Will’s mouth as he inhaled and then breathed out the thick smoke, fighting hard not to cough as he’d seen other novices do. A self-satisfied grin spread on Kit’s face. “What?”

“Nothing.” Kit shook his head amusedly. “Come on, let’s do the betrothal scene.”

Will winced. He remembered that one from The Rose. Alexander had played Abigail and kissed him. “Why not the fighting part?” he hastened to suggest. “That’s what I should be rehearsing. I know all the words, but not the moves.”

Kit thought for a few moments. Then he shrugged. “Fine. So what’s your line, genius?”

“ _What, dares the villain write in such base terms?_ ” Will shot back at him.

Kit faltered. “Ah…” He laid the pipe on the table, fumbled in his sleeve and produced a couple of sheets. “ _I did it – and revenge it, if thou dar’st._ Then Jack will move towards you like this…” Kit stepped closer to Will and drew his dagger. “Just… pretend it’s a rapier, okay? And you will parry it. Go on.”

Will drew and clumsily fended off Kit’s weapon with his own. Kit renewed his attack and their daggers clashed, swinging round and locking at their hips. Their faces ended up too close together and Will took a quick step back. “Shouldn’t I rather be doing this with Jack?” he asked testily.

“He needs his beauty sleep. I don’t.”

“You have a point,” Will blurted, a confused blush immediately following the obvious come-on. What was he doing, referring so blatantly to Kit’s seducer’s looks, playing into his hands like a fool? Kit just looked at him, his face full of wonder. It made him look suddenly childish – defenceless. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but changed his mind.

“Alright…” He hesitated for a moment. “And then… ah, Jack will spin around like this and kind of skirt your body with his, and you step away…”

Will tried his best to follow Kit’s instructions, but it was difficult and he was getting more and more nervous. As if the prospect of performing at court wasn’t bad enough, this whole situation was outrageously weird. He had never had anyone visit him in his lodgings at this hour of the night. Least of all a man who obviously spent his time kissing other men. With tongue. In graveyards!

Well, he didn’t have to cater to Kit’s every whim. Crossing his arms, he sat down on the bed. “You’d better get someone else to do it. I can’t learn this in one night.”

Kit’s jaw set. “We have no one else.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I’m serious.” Kit sat down beside him. “I only want you.”

Will didn’t move. His eyes snagged on a crack in the wall opposite. He felt as though he was floating an inch above the bed. “I saw you with Alexander,” he said, meaning to come off completely neutral, but ending up sounding like a hurt child.

Kit was silent for a few moments. When he did speak, his voice was soft. “So?”

Will turned away in order to be able to say it. “So you only want me, do you?”

There. It was out in the open. He was finally talking about it, acknowledging the tension that had been building up between them for months.

Kit sighed. “He wants _me_. But I’m here, aren’t I?” His hand crept up Will’s back and into his hair. Will held his breath. The hand caressed his neck, sending waves of icy heat down his naked back.

“And… what do _you_ want?” Will asked, hoarse with nerves and something else that he refused to name.

Kit smiled. “You can’t tell?”

“I _could_ , if you were… you know.”

Kit nodded almost imperceptibly. “A woman.”

Will swallowed.

“So because I’m a man, you have no idea.”

Will said nothing. There was nothing to say. No script. This page was blank and there was no precedent, no prior text to go foraging through.

Except…

 _Your honeyed eyes, Juventius…_ His breath hitched at the memory of the night he visited Master Jenkins in his teacher’s lodgings. They had talked about Catullus, about the play that Will would write for the class to perform. They had drunk mulled wine and laughed late into the night, candlelight flickering over their flushed faces and the frosty roses on the window panes. _I came away from this so fired by your cleverness and humour, Licinius, that my food did not ease my pain, and sleep spread no rest over my eyes, but raging with frenzy I tossed about all over my bed…_

Kit took away his hand. “Well,” he sighed. “I suppose we’ll… find someone else then.”

Will frowned, dazed and confused as if woken from a dream. What had he done to put Kit off so suddenly? He was tense as a rod. His body was screaming no, and Kit had got the message. Taking care not to touch Will again, he stood up and scratched his neck self-consciously.

“Sorry to barge in like this. I just thought, you know… Anyway, you can keep the wine.”

Will’s ribs seemed to close on his heart. Terrified at the prospect of Kit leaving, he bounded to his feet and burst out, “Alright, I’ll do it!”

Kit stopped and turned around.

“The scenes, I mean… I’ll get paid, right?”

“Sure…” Kit watched him closely, perhaps trying to decipher what Will was really saying. There was a pause where only Will’s breathing could be heard. Then Kit shrugged, walked back, picked up the play again and, pausing just a moment as if debating with himself, he delivered a line from the betrothal scene. But he switched the roles, consciously clothing himself in the active seducer’s apparel and forcing Will to take on the woman’s part. “ _Then, gentle Abigail, plight thy faith to me._ ”

It was a question, and Will answered. “ _I cannot choose, seeing my father bids_.” His voice seemed to belong to someone else. Someone who had made his mind up. “ _Nothing but death shall part my love and me_.” A warm shudder engulfed him at the thought of what he was saying yes to. This wasn’t real. They were not talking about this. He was _not_ about to let another man touch him there.

Kit stepped closer. The play crumpled between them. “ _Now have I that for which my soul hath longed…_ ” he whispered. Will’s lips parted automatically, ready to receive whatever Kit wanted to give. The sudden softness on his mouth sent a tingling shaft of pleasure down his groin, draining the very life out of his body. The tip of Kit’s tongue brushed his lips and Will was back at the riverbank, the waters of the Thames roaring in his ears – he was once again saved from death.

“But…” He withdrew with a small gasp. “I… I’ve only ever slept with my wife.”

Kit stared at him in surprise and then burst out laughing. “Of all the million things you could decide to say, that was what you deemed the most enticing?”

Will was flustered. “I just meant…”

“Don’t worry,” Kit chuckled. “You’re just scratching an itch that she’s too far away to take care of.” He sat Will down on the bed. “So… you’ve never done this before, huh?” His voice was wispy as he stroked a warm thumb across Will’s lips and then followed the fine line up to his nose. “I’m almost jealous.”

Will managed a smile. “I’m a total novice. I don’t even know what goes where.”

Kit laughed again, but this time it sounded affectionate. “Oh, there are all kinds of options.” He gently pushed Will into the mattress and his hair fell about his face, tickling Will’s cheeks as he leaned over him. A rush of air escaped from Will’s lungs as he was weighed down by Kit’s body. It relaxed onto him, forcing him to exhale, to give in. A leg slipped in between his own, and Will knew that Kit must feel the outline of the unnatural swelling down there. Yes, the sudden smile on his face said he did, and he took the liberty of pushing his own mirroring hardness against Will’s crotch. Gasping at the contact, Will felt himself be overtaken by want, his sanity swiftly receding. Everything in him gathered at the surface, reached for Kit with the helpless longing of a flower turning towards the sun. He had needed this forever, and hadn’t even known it.

Grinning lazily, Kit began grinding against him, torturing the painful bulge between his legs. Will closed his eyes, out of his mind with lust and fear. He wanted to surrender, wanted to be taken, but how could he? This was Kit. They were _friends_. What was he doing here, in Will’s bed, trailing his tongue all over his throat? What was he doing, pushing his codpiece into Will’s groin? He should have gone home with Alexander instead. Such a thing could have been easily forgotten. Will wouldn’t even have had to pretend that he knew.

But this? This he would have to live with. Every time he met Kit’s eyes they would both know what had happened.

And yet he couldn’t resist that alien heat, flashing through him, making everything melt and tingle. Kit’s voracious lips on his skin fed a hunger he had never allowed himself to feel. _If I can do this for him, maybe it’s some small payment for all that he has done for me_ , he tried to rationalise. _I can just let him do what he wants. Let him take me, roughly if that’s his fancy, and my debt will be paid._

But as Kit roved over Will’s burning limbs, his touch was surprisingly gentle. For all his pushy rhetoric, he was mild when it came to the actual act. He began to undo the knot in Will’s breeches and Will tried to be scandalised, but all he could think about was the hand moving over him, the urge to buck into that palm, to get at the body underneath Kit’s clothes, to smell and taste and feel it. To be possessed by it. It was an aching, empty feeling, a hunger, a black nothingness that yearned to be filled.

He couldn’t bear any more of this overture.

As though Kit knew what he was thinking, he rolled to one side and turned Will over, easing down his hose until he was entirely exposed. Will gasped again as he felt Kit’s fingers slip inside that secret crack and start rubbing, back and forth, circling his entrance with movements that were both gentle and insistent. Blood rushed to Will’s face, the shame and the pleasure almost equally strong. “May I?” came Kit’s husky whisper close to his ear.

“In there?” Will asked stupidly. Kit nodded against his shoulder. “Okay…”

“Okay?”

“Yes.”

Kit fumbled with something behind Will’s back. _He’s going to put it inside of me!_ Will’s mind screamed at him, but the shock he should feel drowned in the sensations of the hot and sweaty body that was pressing against his back, pleading with him to open up, to let it in. almost without thinking, he lifted his leg, opened wide for the man who was eagerly guiding himself right, pressing his hard flesh against that tiny, tender gateway. There was a soft, sticky feeling, but Will didn’t have the time to ask before it happened.

A sharp intake of air, then his eyes closed, his mouth opened and his breath caught in his throat. One long, slow movement had Kit fully sheathed. It was an alien feeling – being filled from inside, stretched like kidskin to accommodate the unfamiliar shape of a new wearer. There was a painful, burning sensation, but also something else, an exquisite tickling deep inside him, as if Kit was touching a piece of his soul.

Panting in his ear, Kit drew out a little, and then pushed inside again. The sheer pressure sent sparks through Will’s loins, made him gasp. He didn’t know where he was, or even who he was any longer. He was just a body, filled with Kit. Moaning with the intensity of it, of being ground into the mattress by the weight of another male body, he gave up entirely and let the flood carry him away from any shore he’d ever tried to hold on to. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his fingers closed on fabric as Kit sped up, thrusting harder and harder until he stiffened, cried out and closed trembling fists in Will’s hair. For a moment, Will started to relax, thinking this was it. But then Kit started moving again, pushing his spent cock deeper, deeper, nudging something that sent delicious tremors through Will’s muscles… until suddenly, he lost his inner footing – as if pushed from a cliff, as if pulled out by the tide – and he almost doubled up in shock as his body tore loose from his grip and bucked and jerked and spilled with Kit’s cock still buried deep inside him.

Before his breathing had calmed down, Kit turned him over, his wide eyes asking questions in the dusk above him. Wordless, Will reached up and pulled him down onto his chest. His hands were shaking, clumsy, but he stroked Kit’s hair and shoulders over and over, as if to ascertain that he was really there.

Because it was unthinkable: Will was in bed with his onetime unattainable hero, with Christopher Marlowe, the brightest star of English literature. The author of _Tamburlaine_ and translator of _Amores_ was breathing on his chest, kissing his skin, leaking sticky love all over his thighs – love that he’d just spent inside of Will. It was inconceivable, and yet not only real, but perhaps predestined. This was the only possible outcome.

They were meant to be here.


	10. Chapter 10

Kit slept soundlessly. His features were softened in sleep, and it made him look much younger than his twenty-four years.

He was a beautiful man, by any standard.

“I want to stay with you forever,” Will whispered, but the sound of his own voice in the grey morning light scared him and he threw a paranoid glance round the room, half expecting something horrible to spring from the shadows. “I want to run away and pretend this never happened,” he corrected himself.

_This is crazy. When he wakes up he’ll be as horrified as I am at what we’ve done._

But then he wondered. Was he horrified? Of course he wasn’t. He was still euphoric from the experience. Intimate relations with Agnes had been pleasant enough, but not remotely close to this, this… blending. Sleeping with Kit…

He paused to digest the very sentence. Sleeping with Kit? Yes. That was what had happened. Kit had been inside him. It was…

He didn’t know what it was. Insane? Wonderful? A second deflowering, if he’d been a woman. But Kit hadn’t only penetrated his body, but also somehow his mind. Will closed his eyes and summoned the unspeakable acts they had performed from his memory. Had he blacked out temporarily? How else could he explain the things he had let Kit do to him? If anything, he should be doing those things to Agnes, or she to him. Of course, he had heard of it. Whispers, mostly. Fragments of allusions. A vague image of long dead Greeks playing wantonly with their boy servants. But the reality was nothing like the poetry. It was infinitely more… real.

Moaning softly to remember, he slid a hand down to touch himself where Kit had touched him. He knew what was said about people like him. About how sodomites were so insatiable that they didn’t settle for women but must have men too. Will the prude. The insatiable prude. He would have laughed at it if he wasn’t still all wound up. Stroking himself and reliving the evening, he didn’t know if what he felt was pleasure or pain. All he knew was Kit’s sweet and greasy scent, the warmth radiating from his naked skin. The build-up in his abdomen was so quick that he hardly knew where it came from. In moments, he was undone.

How was it possible?

But of course he knew. He had always known, even if he hadn’t dared to admit it.

***

_As Master Jenkins led the way across the schoolyard, his feet made dark wet prints in the newly fallen snow. He unlocked the door to his lodgings and they stepped inside. While Master Jenkins lit a few candles, Will looked around. The parlour was cosy, not at all what you’d expect from a schoolmaster. It wasn’t remotely austere, but furnished with drapes and pretty pictures that made it feel… welcoming, somehow. It wasn’t merely a room, it was a home, even though there was no wife to make it complete._

_“Make yourself comfortable, I’ll get the…”_

_“Yeah…”_

_There were chairs, but Will sat on the bed. It felt like the polite thing to do, since it was very grand and Master Jenkins must be proud of it. At the same time, Will’s cheeks burned at the intimacy of his breeches touching the covers. Hopefully Master Jenkins had another bed for his personal use and this one was only for show._

_Before long, Master Jenkins held a mug in front of him. Will took it and lifted it to his lips. The hot liquid scalded his tongue and he recoiled._

_“I have a confession to make,” Master Jenkins said as he sat down in a nearby chair._

_“Oh?”_

_“Yes. You, uh… you left your copy of Metamorphoses at the school last week, and…” Master Jenkins made a guilty face._

_Will reddened, fear closing his throat. “It wasn’t mine,” he rasped stupidly, knowing what was to come._

_Master Jenkins smothered a smile. “I know your handwriting, William.”_

_Will squeezed his mug of wine, beside himself with shame. The things he had written in the margins… “I was just doodling,” he swallowed. “Trying out phrases.” Please God, I didn’t mention him by name, did I?_

_“Oh, I know,” Master Jenkins hastened to agree, perhaps as reluctant as Will to discuss the actual contents of that stumbling verse. “Your hand is improving. And you have a talent with words. You do, William.”_

_Will looked down bashfully. “Whatever I do, I learned from you.”_

_“Yes…” Master Jenkins cleared his throat. “About that. You’ll have to arrange for further studies quite soon. I’m not staying here indefinitely.”_

_Will stared at his teacher, incomprehension giving way to horror._

_“What I’m saying is, William, I’m leaving. Perhaps as early as this spring.”_

_“No…”_

_“I’m afraid I am. And you could replace me if you wanted. But you’d need an education, of course.”_

_Will breathed shallowly. To break free of Stratford, to fly like a bird towards Oxford or Cambridge… “I couldn’t,” he whispered. “I’m not good enough.”_

_Master Jenkins laughed softly. “You think you have to be good at something to become a teacher?”_

_“Well… you are.” Will almost choked on the words. “You make people… interested. In stuff. You make stories sort of… come alive. And you make people want to… kind of… please you…”_

_It sounded all wrong. It sounded obscene. But Master Jenkins didn’t comment. He remained silent for a long while and only looked at Will with an inscrutable expression on his face. When he finally spoke, his voice had changed. “So what did you think of Catullus?”_

***

Exhausted, Will drifted off to sleep sometime in the morning, but it felt as if he just dipped his toes into Lethe for a few moments, when next thing he knew, the sun was shining in through the shutters, piercing his eye with a fearful summons.

Whitehall!

“Kit,” he gasped, giving his bedmate a shake. “Wake up, we have to go.”

“Hm?” Kit stirred reluctantly.

“Jesus, my head… what did you put in that pipe?”

Kit chuckled and turned to the wall. The sheets fell away from his body and revealed the skin that Will had been caressing just a few hours ago. It already felt like a dream. His head hurt, partly from lack of sleep, but he suspected that the pipe also had something to do with it. “Kit, come on, when were we supposed to be at Whitehall? We’ll be late!”

“What do you mean ‘we’?” Kit muttered into the pillow. “I’ll just stay here and sleep it off.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve never been to Whitehall! I have no idea where to go. They won’t even let me in if I go alone. You have to come with me.”

Kit grunted. “Alright, alright, just let me wake up…” He laboured to sit. “I just need a little pick-me-up. Have a look in my doublet.”

Will searched the garment and found a small vial.

“Yes, that’s the one.” Kit unscrewed the cork and took a sniff. His head jerked back and he made a face, but when he looked up again, his eyes were clearer. “Don’t worry, we’ll be there in time. We’ll grab a boat.”

“Not a boat,” Will shot back immediately.

Kit laughed. “Okay, we’ll walk. It’ll be lovely. Beautiful Thursday morning…”

And it was. The air was clear, almost crisp, yet warm. The sun shone down at them as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened during the night. The Thames, however, was looking unusually filthy. A couple of dead seagulls were bobbing up and down on the surface amid festering leaves and rotten apples. Nowhere in the world could there be a more polluted river, and last night Will had fallen into it. He shuddered. This was a far cry from the crystal clear waters of the Avon, of the swans gliding on the surface like white angels.

They walked along the riverbank and Kit babbled on about everything and nothing while Will held his tongue. He was about to perform before the Queen for the first time, and he was not prepared, not a jot. They had barely begun rehearsing his fight scene before the situation got out of hand. The little time he had had was wasted on…

… the most wonderful experience of his life. He glanced at Kit and his chest hurt with the sheer beauty of him. If he could turn back time, he would do the same again. He should go to church and confess his heinous sin, but what was the point if he didn’t repent truly, in his heart?

As they neared Ludgate, dodging this way and that to avoid the clamouring salesmen of St Paul’s, he began to notice how people’s heads turned as they passed – and it wasn’t for him. They were looking at Kit. He seemed unaware of it, but that might just be a well-rehearsed mask. Walking in the shadow of his illustrious companion, Will had the freedom to watch their faces, and he saw reflected there every facet of human emotion: fear, admiration, anger, disgust, love… What kind of life had Kit lived in order to excite so many different passions in his fellow human beings? He was all things to everyone, like a protean player who could take on any part, who could be anyone and gain access to anything.

When they arrived at Whitehall the guards opened the gates without a word. Kit didn’t even have to open his mouth. Moving through the gardens towards the palace, Will looked around in awe. The grounds stretched in every direction, vast like fields of barley, and yet it was land which didn’t produce anything but beauty. On high poles, mythical beasts sat gazing over the heads of the visitors. There were fragrances and colours everywhere, and none of the stink of the narrow Bishopsgate streets. It was like entering Paradise.

“Grand, isn’t it?” Kit sneered.

The occasional group of finely clad nobles passed on the paths, but their eyes never met. Will and Kit were less than nothing, their voices the annoying but ignorable buzzing of summer flies.

Once inside the immense building, they were shown to the actors’ quarters. From the serenity and calm of halls filled with mirrors and paintings of long-dead royalty, they moved almost imperceptibly into the familiar world of theatre, a bubble of raucousness inside this hallowed place. “Jesus Christ, Kit, you call this being on time?” a stressed-out Jack exclaimed, pushing his sweat-dark hair out of his face. Then he saw Will. “Oh… is this the replacement? W-what’s your name again?”

“Will.”

“Right, okay, W-Will then. How are you today and all that. You know how to make yourself up, yeah?”

“I suppose so…”

Jack groaned. “W-well, every career has to have a low point. Sorry, it’s not your fault, I’m just so… ugh!” While Kit found a chair and reclined in it languidly, Jack hurried to help Will into his clothes. His hands were strangely steady, as if, for all his complaining, he was used to this kind of chaos. “Now, do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”

“Not really…”

“Good God in heaven! Again, sorry, not your fault, but Kit is so…” Jack rubbed his face. “You can’t reason with him. And it’s not fair on you, to make you jump in like this.”

“I’m not a total novice,” Will said, and blushed to remember saying the exact opposite only a few hours ago in the light of a quivering candle. “I… have done school plays…”

“School plays!” Jack slapped his own forehead. “This is the Queen, for Christ’s sake!”

“I remember lines, okay? I won’t forget a single word. It’s just the action that we have to rehearse. I have no idea how to fight.”

“Right, right, w-well, that’s good, I suppose,” Jack tried to calm himself. “And I’m the one you’re supposed to be fighting, so that’s alright. Listen, w-we’ll just minimise it. I’ll kill you quickly, and then stumble onto your sword or something. W-we’ll make it work.” He shot an angry glance at Kit, who seemed half asleep in his chair.

“Christ almighty!” Kempe burst into the room like some angry little curly-haired mongrel. “There’s no light in the chamber!”

“What do you mean, no light?”

“We’re supposed to perform in a room without windows!”

“W-what the fuck?” Jack looked like he was about to have a heart attack. “Who screwed up?”

“The Master of the Revels, I suppose. Or one of his minions. They’ve given us torches.”

“Torches?” Jack clasped his head in desperation. “So somebody has to stand in front the stage holding a torch the whole time? W-what, pretending to be the sun or some such outdated bloody nonsense? Please, Kempe, tell me you’re joking.”

Kempe shrugged unhappily.

“How can we be expected to w-work under these circumstances?” Jack hollered at the ceiling. “It’s unprofessional!”

“You could make it work _for_ you,” Kit said, sounding disinterested. Jack turned a forbidding scowl his way, but Kit was unimpressed. “Barabbas is in most of the scenes. He could carry a torch, it could symbolise Hell or something. And when he has to use his hands, he’ll just pass it to someone else for a minute… right?”

“Right…” Jack bit his lip indecisively. “Christ, this shouldn’t even be our problem. W-we’re not employed to solve the logistics of the court.”

“Maybe not, but if you don’t, there’s no show.”

At that moment Edward Alleyne clapped his hands to bring order, all briskness and authority now that he was about to walk on stage as the villain of the piece. “First positions, everyone! It’s time.” His chestnut locks were covered by a red wig and his charmer’s eyes all but hidden beneath a coat of charcoal.

“Here.” Jack shoved a torch into his hand. “Good luck…”

Edward rolled his eyes but didn’t comment. The music started and Jack handed Will his roll, but he declined it with a slight shake of the head. “I just need to know when to enter.”

“There’s a promptbook over there, on the w-wall. You can see every scene and every cue.”

“Thank you.”

The sound of a trumpet tore at Will’s ears and one of the actors stepped through the curtain to speak the prologue. Through the momentary slit in the heavy fabric Will caught a glimpse of brocade, silk and pearls and his heart almost stopped. This was it. There was no way out. It was for real now. He was about to perform in front of the whole court, in front of the ruler of the realm, and he had no idea what to do.

“If you move a little to the side,” Kit whispered behind his back, “You can see her.”

“I’d rather not,” Will whispered back, shivers running through him, making his muscles clench erratically. But when Kit rose to lead him by the arm to a crack in the curtains, he couldn’t resist. Leaning in close, he peeked through the opening in the cloth.

And there she sat, like justice on a monument, scowling at mirth. Dressed in indescribable wealth from top to toe, confined inside a stiff brocade corset, small eyes peering out through the white makeup, she looked like something straight out of Ovid – a golden goddess with infinite power.

But her caked face was slightly cracked close to her jaw.

“Now it’s your turn.”

He stepped out, or was pushed. “ _Why how now, Mathias, in a dump?_ ” he said. First line out of his mouth without a glitch.

“ _Believe me, noble Lodowick_ ,” his fellow player replied. “ _I have seen the strangest sight, in my opinion, that ever I beheld._ ”

Will knew every word, every gesture. Caught up in the ebb and flow of the piece, he gradually relaxed. Kit’s words found an easy passage through his body, he was as one with them, and his voice carried in the smoky silence. Time ceased to exist. He was part of something bigger than his own paltry life. He seemed to expand in the heat from the torches, to leave the ground and hover above history, free to look both forwards and back. He actually was Lodowick. He was in his element.

He had come home.

So when the time came to kiss his young bride, he was not prepared for reality to come crashing back in. “ _Then gentle Abigail_ …” He leaned forward and caught a whiff of some pungent scent in the air, something that reminded him of–

Staring, he felt the presence of the boy through the sleeve of his shirt, felt him stand close, too close, his body heat seeping through the fabric, flooding Will’s mind with images from St Leonard’s graveyard.

He had no idea who Lodowick was anymore. He was Will, standing naked on a stage before the Queen, shivering and sweating in the burning cold of Alexander’s presence, the only presence he managed to understand. Alexander hesitated for a moment and then hastily pressed his mouth to Will’s, thus ending the short dialogue before it became too apparent to the audience what was ailing the amnesiac lover. Stumbling into the wings, Will clutched his chest. _My God, what just happened?_ Kit had kissed them both, and now their lips met again on the mouth of this boy. The full truth of their actions crashed down on Will. He had betrayed his wife, his God, himself. He had opened his body for unspeakable sins.

_I have to confess._

Falling to his knees, he attempted a prayer, but his tongue was weighted down with lead, immobile in his mouth. Casting desperate eyes at the ceiling, his gaze snagged in the intricacies of its wooden carvings. There was no heaven for him to see. The ceiling barred the way. The works of man shut him out.

When it was time for his final scene, his knees were still trembling. He stepped through the curtain, breathed in. He was being watched. If he so much as touched the memory, the Queen would see. He must push it out of his mind, concentrate on the fight. After this scene, he would be free. He just needed to do this one last thing, and then it was all over and he could go home and never venture outside ever again. But drawing his sword at the signal from Jack, all he could see was an inner scene where the candlelight glimmered in Kit’s eyes as he drew his dagger and stepped close…

Jack lunged forward and Will jumped to one side. The sword almost touched him. There was a murmur of laughter from the audience. He held his breath and kept his eyes fixed on Jack’s sword, backing away automatically at the sight and holding his own blade in front of him, more like a shield than a weapon. Jack made some half-hearted thrusts and then caught his eye, telling him with a nod that it was time to end it. Will steeled himself, but before Jack had a chance to deal the blow, Will had taken a step back and tripped on a prop. He fell, arms flailing, to an explosion of laughter from the audience. He even thought he heard the Queen herself. Jack grimaced and planted his sword a few inches from Will’s chest. At the last moment Will remembered to raise his own so that Jack could impale himself on it. He fell elegantly and ended up lying face to face with Will. “You alright?” he whispered.

Will blinked. His cheeks were burning with the humiliation of it all, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He could only lie there for the longest five minutes of his life, until Edward hoisted him on his shoulder and carried him upside down into the lee of the wings. Set down on the floor again, Will leaned his head into his hands and groaned softly.

“Bravo!” came the honey-smooth voice of Kit. “What a natural. Edward will have to watch out.”

Will looked up to see his taunting smile. “Don’t you dare!”

“What? I thought you were cute.”

“You slipped something into Augustine’s drink, didn’t you? To make him ill? The Red Fairy or something?”

Kit looked stricken. “What do you think I am?” he breathed, genuinely shocked.

“Well, you were very quick to replace him with me,” Will insisted.

“So?”

“So it seems suspiciously like a plot. Maybe you even poisoned me, to make me do those things…”

Kit’s mouth fell open. Will instantly regretted his words, but couldn’t take them back. For a moment, it looked as if Kit was going to be angry, which he probably had a right to be. Instead, he chose to laugh. “Relax. If you didn’t like it, I’m not going to insist on an encore.”

Will hesitated, suddenly afraid that he had done something irrevocable, that he had lost something important. “That’s not what I meant,” he mumbled apologetically. “I just… I’m not sure I want to be… to do…” He grappled with the meaningless words, trying to put them together into something that even remotely described what he felt. Finally he blurted, “I’m married!”

“Well…” Kit looked away, wan smile making his face look a thousand years old. “If it bothers you so much… why don’t you just pretend that you dreamt it all?”


	11. Chapter 11

In the weeks following his inadvertent little swim in the Thames, Will hardly knew when he was awake and when he was sleeping. Everything around him seemed normal enough. Nobody behaved any differently towards him, and he made a decent job of playing himself: he pirated, he composed, he had the occasional drink. He wrote lines that had nothing to do with him. He drilled his street company and even considered contacting Robert again, to finally get to work on _Henry VI_.

But each morning he woke up and wondered if the day before had actually happened. Every day was the same, and nothing seemed real. Had he been dreaming, or had he finally woken up?

“ _Then to his image did he make a man – old Adam, and from his side asleep, a rib was taken, of which the Lord did make the woe of man…_ ”

He came to at the murmur of sniggers from the drunken audience, and made a mental note to discard the stupid pun. They hadn’t laughed enough. Actually, most of this play was kind of dull. He would have to rewrite a lot. Kate was a wooden statue, as if written by Robert, and it wasn’t young Christopher’s fault. The lad was spectacular, talented beyond his years and darkly pretty to boot. Something else was the problem. Will rubbed his face wearily, but he must do this. Must concentrate on something real, to escape those crazy dreams.

“… _And for a precedent I’ll first begin, and lay my hand under my husband’s feet!_ ”

There was spontaneous applause at this, but Will was already changing the line. Under her husband’s boot – that rhymed with foot and should be used to strengthen the image. _Boot, boot… booty? No. It boots us not… Yes. Something like that. It is no boot. My husband’s foot. Better._ Although foot was no better than hand when it came to innuendo… He blushed at the thought, and his chest pulsed with a strange kind of pain. Why was it so impossible to keep from stumbling into double meanings? The English language was irrevocably corrupted, and one single man was responsible for its decline. Will shouldn’t be touching words at all – because through them, he touched Kit.

The impromptu applause ended when Sinklo was carried in again. “Ah, there he is!” someone shouted. “Come on then, give us your best dribble, ha ha.” Sinklo duly accommodated the shouter, and Will gnashed his teeth. He was getting fed up with his filthy audience. Yes, they pointed out certain weaknesses, and yes, they showed him what was funny – in a hands-on, exaggerated way. They certainly picked up on anything that might be construed as a dirty joke. What they didn’t do was to evaluate the finer points of philosophy that he also included, or the intertextual poetry culled from Virgil or Ovid. They were simply deaf to it, through no fault of their own, since they had been deprived of a grammar school education. But it was difficult not to hold them personally responsible when the pearls he threw just landed with a wet smack in the mud of the suburbs, unheeded and unrelished and trampled into oblivion. He needed a real audience. He needed input from someone who was at least as bright as himself.

After a bit of forgettable extemporising, the company gathered to take their bows and hold their caps out for beer money. Will stood and briefly acknowledged the clapping. Christopher, still in his dress but now out of character, threw an uneasy glance towards the bar. His dark blue eyes registered something and grew troubled. “Right, I’m off,” he muttered, slipped out of his cheap costume and hurried towards the door.

“But Christopher, your money!” Will yelled after him, but he was already gone, replaced by the unmistakable silhouette of Kit.

Will froze to the spot. He had endeavoured beyond human strength to forget everything remotely connected to the man, but now that Kit stood there in the flesh, the walls Will had so carefully built up came crashing down.

Kit didn’t seem thrown at all, but immediately made for his table and slumped in a chair, snapping his fingers at a sullen drawer. Will glanced at the grass stains and spatters of mud on his silk stockings. The whole time he had known the man, he had been scrupulous about his appearance – with the possible exception of the time Will found him overdosed on the Red Fairy. Why this sudden change?

The drawer approached, but seemed unwilling to go too near Kit’s chair. “You’re going to keep calm this time, I hope?” he muttered as he brought him a mug of mad dog – not the best beverage in Kit’s present state, Will thought wryly.

“Never you mind,” Kit snarled in answer and put his feet on the table. “Just bring me the fucking food.” He turned to Will. “You know, I don’t know why you chose this place to perform.”

“Where else?” Will asked, striving to keep his tone light and friendly. “You said to work in the suburbs.”

Kit grimaced. “But here?”

“You’re here.”

“Well…”

Will looked around the room uneasily, suddenly aware that several people were staring at them. “If they’ve got anything against you here, maybe you should go somewhere else,” he whispered.

Kit’s eyes were far from their usual golden brown when he looked up. “You’re trying to get rid of me.” It wasn’t a question.

“I just meant–”

“Fuck them. I’ll eat where the fuck I want. Even if I shouldn’t give these particular fuckers my money.” He was twirling his mug between his fingers, his face dark and threatening. Just a few days ago, it had shone with an inner light in the dusk of Will’s lodgings. Now he looked like a walking, talking thunder cloud. He took a big gulp from his mug and then sighed. “Forget it. Who am I fooling? The whole of London is a sewer, and the people are rats, gobbling up whatever garbage they can find.”

Will grinned forcibly. “I sincerely hope you’re not referring to my work?”

For a long time Kit didn’t register the question. He was gazing towards the bar, where the host was having a whispered conversation with the drawer, throwing frequent glances in their direction. When he finally did turn to Will again, there was a subtle flicker in his face, like the briefest of visits from the old Kit – the real one, not this dark shadow who just stepped out of a revenge play. “Of course not,” he said. “You’re a bloody genius, you know that. It’s just everybody else I hate.”

There was a prolonged, uneasy silence where Will tried desperately to find something to say and Kit seemed lost in his own world of demons and hellfire. Finally, Will ventured, “So how’s your _Faustus_ coming along?” He winced at his own words, but something needed to be said, to dispel this mood.

“It’s a piece of crap,” Kit said curtly.

Will stared at him. It was the first time Kit had said anything remotely disparaging about his own work. “Are you serious?”

“You should hear what Robert has to say about me.”

Will shook his head. “You can’t listen to what Robert says! He despises everyone. You’ve said so yourself.”

Kit made a face. “I know that. I know. It’s just that… others listen to him. They read his scathing pamphlets and laugh like morons at how cleverly he puts it when he’s destroying some hard-working man’s poetry. As if vomiting all over somebody else’s work makes him a poet.”

Will was struck dumb. He had never known Kit to care in the least what anyone thought, least of all Robert Greene.

Kit seemed to note his surprised expression and shook his head. “I just hate to see mediocrity raised to the skies by the gullible masses, hungering for a bit of subpar wordplay. It’s very easy to be negative, you know. Just take a poem, any poem, even a classic, and make snide remarks about every little detail in it. Well, that’s not criticism, that’s self-promotion.”

The drawer approached their table with a simpering smile on his egg-like face. “I’m afraid there’s no lamb left.”

“Really,” Kit said without looking at him. “What about the sausages?”

“I’m sorry, but…”

“You’re all out.”

The drawer spread his hands. “What can I say? It’s been a busy week.” At the word ‘busy’, his eyes flitted knowingly towards Will.

“What about them?” Kit jerked his head towards a group of apprentices who were just starting on a plateful of ribs.

“The last of the lot, I’m afraid.”

“You’re awfully afraid, aren’t you?” Kit looked up at the smirking drawer. “I’ll give you a reason to be afraid if you like.”

“Don’t,” Will warned him. “He doesn’t mean it,” he added to the drawer.

“We don’t want your sort here,” the drawer insisted chattily.

“What do you mean, ‘our sort’?” Will demanded, since the jibe seemed directed at him too. The drawer pursed his lips. Kit said nothing. He didn’t even move, just sat there with his boots on the table and his mug of mad dog in his lap, and yet the menace massing around him was unmistakable.

“I suppose I was lucky to get a drink, since you’re probably running out of that too,” he said, his voice impossibly gentle. A shiver ran down Will’s spine at the jarring sound. Something was going seriously wrong here, and he had no idea how to stop it.

“It was the last drop,” the drawer said pleasantly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave after this one drink.”

Kit’s jaw set. “I’m bothering no one.”

The drawer glanced at Kit’s hand, the one holding his beer. “Maybe not. But we’ll have to throw away that mug afterwards.”

Through the deepening tension, Will could hear Kit breathing.

“And probably his as well,” the drawer added with a condescending glance at Will. “I suppose there’s no telling where your fingers have been, either?”

“What the fucking hell are you saying?” Kit’s voice was a mere growl.

“We want none of your bum boys here, Master M–”

Something seemed to snap inside Kit. Will saw it in his face, the way it seemed to stiffen, the way his pupils shrank to pinpricks. In an instant he had stood up and hurled his mug across the room. It hit the wall and broke into some dozen shards which tinkled to the floor in the stunned silence.

“It doesn’t matter,” Will whispered, pulling at Kit’s arm. “Let’s just go.”

But Kit didn’t hear him. He edged closer to the drawer, who stepped backwards in his shadow, suddenly seeming to catch on. Kit looked like a giant bird of prey, insane from starvation. Other guests hovered in a circle around them, hesitating on the verge of breaking them up. The air was charged with rage. A couple of men stepped forward and took a tentative hold of Kit’s arms, but he flung them away like puppets and in the same motion he drew his dagger.

“No, please, Kit–” Will had the time to cry out before Kit’s hand shot up from underneath the drawer’s belly and penetrated his ribcage. The drawer was almost lifted from his feet, and then he sank to his knees, gaping in red surprise. Falling over, he kicked once, choking on bubbles of his own blood.

“Say hello to Saint Peter for me,” Kit sneered, looking down at the dying man by his feet. “Because I don’t think I’ll be seeing him anytime soon.”

The next thing Will knew, he was running down the street, dragged along by Kit. Stumbling, he caught himself on a wall and retched. Kit stopped as well, breathing heavily, and then collapsed on the ground, laughing. His eyes were shining like crazy jewels. “Did you see his face? He didn’t see that coming!”

“You’re out of your mind!” Will lunged at Kit and tore at his bloodied clothes. “Completely fucking insane. What the hell did you do that for?” He managed to get Kit’s shirt off and flung it on a dunghill. Kit’s face broke into a smile so impish that despite himself, Will felt the familiar stirring in his groin once again.

“Oh, murderous violence makes you hot, does it?” Kit giggled and pulled Will down beside him to smother him with laughing kisses.

Will struggled to get up. “Don’t you realise that there were countless witnesses?” he shouted. “Everybody knows who you are. And you fled the scene of the crime. You’ll be caught and hanged…” Terror closed his throat and he couldn’t get any more words out. Weakness overcame him and he dropped to his knees again.

“Aww, puppy…” Kit hugged him close. “Would you miss me if I died?”

Will pressed his hands to his eyes in a futile attempt to shut out the image of Kit’s entrails being pulled out and burned. He felt Kit’s fingertips touch him tentatively on the cheek: an anxious gesture, a retreat. Will rubbed his forehead wearily and then he let his hands fall into his lap.

Kit swallowed audibly. “You think I’ve lost it, don’t you?”

Will shuddered as he looked into Kit’s eyes, which were once again back to normal. The bad spirit that had possessed him was gone, but his tousled hair still clung to the bloody spatters in his face and a momentary image of Alleyne’s Tamburlaine flashed behind Will’s eyes. “The thought did cross my mind.”

Kit nodded slowly. Then he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. “You think that man was just anyone, and I flew off the handle for one stupid insult.”

“Yes,” Will whispered, yearning for Kit to defend himself, to explain, so that Will wouldn’t have to be afraid of him.

Kit shook his head. “Well… you’ll just have to trust me on this one.”

“I’ll do my best,” Will murmured unhappily. “But before long, they will come for you.”

“Not to worry,” Kit snorted. “They’ll be petty officers, bumbling idiots with no connections and no idea what’s going on in this country.”

 _Like me_ , Will thought.

“Look, I’m sorry if things are weird for you,” Kit sighed, suddenly heavy and tired now that the burst of energy had left him.

“Nothing’s weird,” Will replied weakly. “But I can’t, you know…”

“I know.”

“I can’t,” Will repeated stupidly. “I’m glad to be your friend and everything, but… that other thing… that’s lunacy.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to rape you,” Kit muttered, his voice revealing hurt. And Will wondered: could Kit be hurt?

“You know you have to go back,” he said. “Fleeing is the same as admitting your guilt.”

“And delivering myself up isn’t?” Nevertheless, Kit stood up and sighed, gazing in the direction of Hog Lane. He looked tired, as if he had aged a hundred years. “Oh well. It is time, I suppose.” With that puzzling remark, he started to walk back up the street. Will got to his feet and hurried after him. Just short of the street corner Kit stopped and turned. “You’d better not.”

“You think I’m going to leave you to the ‘bumbling officers’ to fend for yourself?” Will attempted to tease, but his voice was too brittle to carry the joking tone with any confidence.

A faint smile graced Kit’s lips and Will’s heart convulsed at the sight. “I think you’ll have to,” Kit murmured. At that moment a voice called his name, and he froze. “I have to go.”

Fear came creeping back up Will’s spine. “I'll come too,” he pleaded and took a step forward, past the corner. As he looked up the street, he could see the throng outside the tavern babbling excitedly about what had happened – but one man stood completely still in the hubbub, staring unwaveringly in their direction. Will’s pulse pounded in his throat at the sight of the dark cloak flapping in a sudden wind. Even from a distance, Will sensed the man’s intense stare, cold to match the voice that called to Kit with all the finality of the Grim Reaper.

“No!” Kit pushed Will back behind the corner of the house. Smoothing over his roughness with a soft voice, he said, “I have to do this alone, okay?” He glanced up the street and Will attempted another peek, but Kit held him back. “Your players will make good witnesses,” he said in a falsely jaunty tone that was obviously designed to make Will feel better. “They’ll say anything for a few shillings.”

“How do you know? Let me talk to them, we’ll devise something, a plot, something to present to the authorities – I can testify…”

“No.” Kit glanced up the street and a muscle twitched in his cheek. When he spoke again, there was a new urgency in his voice. “No need. It’ll all have been devised already. I know that man. Don’t worry. See you on the other side.”

Will blanched at his choice of words.

“Go home, Will. Please. I’m begging you.”

Begging? Will hesitated, torn between a wish to obey that tortured tone and an urge to rescue him: but how could he rescue Kit from something he didn’t even understand?

Swallowing, he gave a faint nod and Kit relaxed slightly. “But…” he tried, his voice strangled and strange. _Don’t go_ , he wanted to say, but his tongue wouldn’t obey him. Instead the unuttered words tugged painfully at his heart.

Kit hesitated. Then he leaned closer, but veered away at the last moment, only brushing the corner of Will’s mouth before pressing his lips infinitely softly on his cheek. Will felt himself tremble at the thought that Kit’s hand – the hand which had just ended the drawer’s life – might just come creeping to cup Will’s disobedient erection like such another codpiece, sending ripples of desire through every extremity…

But before he ran the risk of acting on his arousal, Kit walked away, leaving a swathe of cold air in place of his presence. The noise of wheels echoed in the lane as the carriage trundled away in the direction of Newgate while Will was left standing with both hands on the wall, trying to regain his balance. It was sick, but he was helpless to stop his own reaction.

_Damn me to Hell, but I still want him._


	12. Chapter 12

Will somehow made it back to his lodgings to collapse into his flea-ridden bed. Several days passed without him setting foot outside, without him even putting quill to paper. When finally one evening there was a knock on his door, he sprang to life in a panic and dashed to open it, craving and dreading the apparition on the other side.

“You look awful.”

It was Richard. Will stared, vacant-eyed, initial alarm transforming into another, of a different kind, one that he hadn’t allowed himself to verbalise until now. Where the hell was Kit? Shoulders falling, he stepped out of the way to let Richard come inside. He should be glad to see him, but he couldn’t muster the energy. Besides, Richard never got into any trouble. Will never had to worry about him, while Kit could be expected to do anything at all. Breathing shallowly, he allowed himself to wonder, to let awful anxiety seep out from behind the barriers he’d set up inside himself. Hadn’t he been released yet? Had his crime proved too horrendous even for the dazzled Privy Council to stomach?

Or had he been set free but had no wish to see Will?

Richard quirked an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned?”

Will shrugged irritably. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Don’t ask me.”

A crease formed on Richard’s forehead. “Where’s the play?”

“Play?”

“ _The Shrew_.”

“Oh.” Will remembered the test run in Hog Lane and just barely suppressed a shiver. “It’s not good enough yet.”

Richard struggled visibly not to get angry. “You’ll never make it if you never finish anything. It doesn’t have to be perfect, you know.”

“It will be. Tomorrow.”

“You’ll bring it?”

Will grimaced, but acquiesced. He could always rewrite it and pass it off as a new play in a couple of months. He wasn’t exactly in the mood for comedies right now.

Richard tried to chat for a while, but soon gave up and left Will alone. The minute he was gone, Will awoke as if from a trance. Putting on his clothes, he nailed a note to the door in case Kit did turn up after all. Then he descended the stairs to the grey and rain-sick streets of Bishopsgate, where the only sign of life was the sucking sounds of his own foot-steps. Shivering in the damp dusk, he almost stumbled on his own feet in his hurry to get to his destination. He hadn’t wanted to know, but now he had to. Had to see.

Reaching Newgate prison only took ten minutes. The ominous stone walls loomed over him like another Tower and he looked up at the faraway sky that refused to touch the roof of the ominous building. He had heard stories of this place. So did he really hope that he would find Kit here?

Swallowing, he laid a hand on the rough door. He wanted to know, and this was the quickest way.

But once inside, he stopped abruptly, choking. The stench of human waste was an almost palpable presence – almost a taste on his tongue – and the air was trembling with the screams of the inmates. Shivering, he almost turned on his heel. If Kit was here – if Kit was one of the men making that kind of noise, like the damned screaming in purgatory – he didn’t want to know after all. Didn’t want to see him shackled to the wall of some filthy cell, beautiful body bruised and bleeding…

And yet he couldn’t leave without touching a hand to that suffering form, without telling him… telling him… Oh God, what could he say? Not the truth. Not a lie. There was no way out of the corner he’d painted himself into. He had let the bad spirit over his threshold, and now it would never leave him alone. It had become part of him.

Covering his mouth and nose, Will advanced into the dusk, only to be stopped by a rough hand on his arm. “Who are you here to see?” The guard was a square rock of a man, impossible to get past.

Will swallowed. “A Master Marlowe.”

“Who?”

“Marley, perhaps? Or Merlin…”

The guard rolled his eyes. “You’ve got no idea, have you? Fucking tourists…”

“No, he’s the same man,” Will insisted, but the guard just shook his head and held his hand out. Will stared at it uncomprehendingly.

“Want a peek?” the guard asked impatiently. “Then pay up. This is no charity we’ve got here.”

Half blind in the darkness, Will fumbled to produce a few coins from his purse. There was a satisfied twitch in the guard’s lip and then Will was shoved in the direction of the cells. “Want the guided tour, then?” The guard led the way down some stairs into a dungeon and motioned for Will to enter. A rancid, many-layered smell that made the miasma hovering by the Rose pale in comparison hit Will’s nose and he almost gagged. It was like breathing tanning liquid. He had heard the prison described as Hell often enough, and he had chalked it up to poetic exaggeration. But this… it was an alien world. Holding his breath, he stepped down onto the rough and slippery floor. There was a crackling sound underfoot and he almost jumped back up on the stairs. “Oh, don’t worry,” the guard laughed. “It’s just the lice. And if you feel something scuttling over your feet as you walk, just kick at it. In fact, some visitors like to make a sport out of it, you know, trying to hit one of the inmates.”

Will said nothing, just ventured further into the darkness jumping with evil sprites. There was the sound of screaming as if from new-borns, but when Will looked around in the flickering light from the guard’s torch, he saw only grown men and women, crawling on the floor like babies, vomiting and spitting into their own sleeping rushes. In a corner, a boy who didn’t look much older than Will’s youngest brother sat reciting Latin declensions as if at a lesson, eyes vacant and arms hanging like pale reeds in their shackles. On the opposite side two prisoners on either side of the bars stood grinding against each other, one of them moving his hand back and forth between the other one’s legs so that his irons clanged. Just another human fluid to join the piss and the blood that was pooling in cracks in the stony floor. In the cage next to them, a man was railing and cursing, lunging at the bars and promising to cut the throat of everybody in sight if he just found a dagger. “That one’s new,” the guard explained. “He hasn’t resigned himself to his fate yet. Thinks himself a soldier. Well, a few weeks in here and he’ll be assimilated.”

Assimilated. A fancy word for such a man.

Venturing further into the filth only peremptorily strewed with rushes, Will glanced through the cages on either side, trying to find Kit’s face among the dirty, toothless masks that seethed and spat at him. A man who had somehow retained a fat belly was standing serene like a priest, spouting wise sayings to anyone who cared to listen. “You know, all the new ones are at the front,” the guard told him. “As you can see, back there. They’re half dead.”

Will peered into the shadows. In the last two cages he could see old men, one of them shuffling back and forth, trailing his chains behind him, his grey hair hanging in knots to his shoulder blades. On the other side of the aisle was an oblivious old fool without teeth, his eyes glazed over with the pale cast of blindness. A bowl of soup sat untouched beside him, and his arms hung limply at his sides. His hands rested on the floor, palms turned upwards, claw-like fingers reaching for a sky he must have forgotten by now. “Isn’t he dead?”

The guard shrugged. “Maybe.”

Will tore his eyes from the half-corpse. “These are all of them?” he asked, both disappointed and relieved.

“Oh, not quite all. You have the finer sort too, who pay for better accommodation, if that’s what you’re after.”

Will’s heart jumped. “Finer sort?”

The guard grinned. One of his teeth glinted like metal. “Follow me.” He led the way past the final cages and up a flight of stairs, winding up through the building. As they got higher, the overwhelming stench thinned somewhat, and Will was almost able to breathe again. The guard turned a large key in a lock, and the squeal echoed through the stairwell like the shriek of a banshee. Then he stepped out of the way so that Will could enter.

Inside, three people were sitting around a rickety table, playing at cards. The room was bitter cold, and only now did Will realise how sweltering the dungeon had been: all those bodies, all that decay made the air tremble with heat. Will hugged himself in the raw damp, feeling as if a ghost licked down his spine as three pairs of eyes turned to look at him.

None of them Kit’s.

But he did recognise one of them. “Watson!” He had only met him a few times, but he remembered the dark beauty of his eyes – remembered thinking that he looked like a true poet. “What are you doing here?”

Watson scoffed. “What is anyone doing here? Playing my part, I suppose.”

The guard, realising that Will would be a while, sat down with his back against the wall and pretended to go to sleep.

“But what did you do?” Will asked.

“Do?” Watson glanced at the guard and grimaced. Will stepped closer, leaned in to hear. “Apparently I killed a man for money.”

Despite recent events, Will was shocked. “You _killed_ someone?”

Watson shrugged, looking very much like a man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. “Don’t ask me to unravel the schemes of greater men. But they seem to think it convenient that there was money owed on several sides. Quite the muddle, but at least it gives me a motive for killing him.”

“But who did you kill?”

Watson managed a wan smile. “A tavern drawer.”

Will took a step back, confusion mingling with a nameless dread, as if his soul was sensing something which was larger than he could understand. “You too?” he whispered.

“Same drawer,” Watson murmured, one eyebrow pointedly arched.

“But… you weren’t even there!”

Watson spread his hands. “Behold the workings of the English state.”

Will’s throat had gone dry. Watson’s resigned manner unnerved him.

“I think I’m supposed to say that I saved Kit. They were duelling and apparently I saw fit to intervene and kill the man. Perhaps in self-defence, perhaps because they want to make an example of him.”

“Of who? Of Kit?”

“No, of Bradley. The drawer.”

Will thought back to the simpering face of the dead man. For some reason, he also remembered young Christopher looking at him while he was still alive. The way he had left so quickly, without even taking his money.

“Why would they want to make an example of him?” Will asked.

Watson went a while without answering. The other two men at the table exchanged glances. Then Watson grimaced and said, “Apparently, he had a trade on the side. Not very noble. Selling children.”

“ _What_?”

“It’s quite lucrative, you know. You can get quite a lot of money for a good songbird, untouched by the plague and human hands. Of course, the latter can’t last very long… but you see, there’s really no harm done. The state doesn’t care about another dead bawd. But they have to seem to look into it, and money is always a good cover story.”

Will struggled to keep the several strands of the story straight. Bradley, Christopher, Watson… “But Kit was here?”

Watson smiled wanly. “Yes, he was. I took his place in this room. Exits and entrances, a new man with the same mask, and nobody the wiser. I’ll be acquitted too, just… maybe not as quickly.”

“You’ll make it, though?”

“Yes, I’ll just sit here and play some more cards with these fine gentlemen, kill a few cockroaches, make my speech at the hearing and be on my way. A performance in its own right.”

Not knowing whether to be relieved or not, Will asked the burning question. “But where is Kit now?”

Watson laughed, for all the world like a man who wasn’t incarcerated in the second worst prison in London. “I’m here, aren’t I? How should I know?”

Will threw a glance at the guard, who immediately stood up, flawlessly attuned to the wishes of his paying visitor. “Well… good luck, I suppose,” Will said, feeling like a fool.

Watson just made a weary face and turned back towards the table. “Knight of hearts. Hah! What do you say to that?”

As Will and the guard made their way back down to the festering womb of the building, the guard pretended to make conversation. “So you’re looking for someone named Kit, then?”

“Yeah…” This time Will fished out a few pence as a preamble, just to put the guard in a good mood.

“What’s he look like, then?”

“Fair hair,” Will said. “Or rather a light brown. A bit shaggy, but fine and well kept. Brown eyes… no, not really brown, more like… I don’t know…”

“Brown’s fine,” the guard interrupted. “I don’t pay _that_ close attention. What was he wearing? What trade is he? Or is he a vagabond like the rest of them?”

“Velvet doublet, short breeches, no hat… You’d notice his legs. I mean, on some people, you know, hose looks really bad, but his really sort of…” Will trailed off, aware of the guard gazing at him curiously.

“You sure it’s not a ‘Mistress’ we’re talking about here?” he chuckled, but didn’t seem to mind it all that much. “Alright, I think I know the man you mean. A bit on the loud side, yeah? Sure of himself?”

Will nodded, swallowing.

“He’s gone.”

“Yes, but where?”

The guard trailed his eyes innocently down Will’s body and he was struck by the insane notion that he might have to trade physical favours to get the information, but then the guard’s eyes snagged on his purse and Will cursed himself inwardly as he fumbled for more bribes. _Am I so irrevocably depraved now that that’s the first thing which enters my mind?_

“Well, there was this man,” the guard chirped, happy with the clinking addition in his palm. “Sinister fellow, obviously government employed. He had orders to come get him. More than that, I don’t know. No, not even if you pay me.”

Will thanked the guard and let himself out into the fresh air outside the prison door. He leaned against the wall and just breathed for a while, his thoughts in turmoil. Kit had been so sure of being acquitted, but maybe this time he was in over his head. What if he had actually been convicted, despite Watson’s testimony to the contrary? What if he had been found guilty? Sick with rising anxiety, Will started off through the streets, looking for the tell-tale signs of Kit’s presence: laughter, a herd of admirers, fights.

Nothing.

He went to the site of the temporary gallows at Aldersgate, but it looked clean, as if there hadn’t been a show for a while. He asked a passing drunkard, and got a spit ball for an answer. It had been a very dull week indeed. Not one single execution.

So where was he? Could they have taken him to the Tower, Newgate’s horrors not enough to atone for the heinous crimes they had uncovered? Were they even now torturing him? Was he sitting in Little Ease, the room that was too small to either stand up or lie down? And would they keep him there forever, not having enough evidence to kill him but quite enough to make the Tower a second home for the rest of his life?

At the thought, Will stiffened in sudden hope. _I haven’t looked for him at his lodgings!_ How stupid was he? Of course Kit would have gone home.

Unable to bear another moment of separation, Will started running. He ran until his chest ached and burned, and when he arrived, he pounded on the door until his fist was raw. Tom yanked it open, bleary eyes an angry accusation. “What?”

“Where is he?”

Tom rolled his eyes. “How should I know?”

“You live with him!”

Tom seemed to register the urgency in Will’s voice. He blinked a couple of times and then stood aside to let Will enter. He strode into the room, looking around as though he expected to see Kit hiding somewhere. Tom sighed. “He hasn’t been here since yesterday.”

Will’s heart cramped. “He was here yesterday?”

“Yeah… but he was in a hurry, I didn’t really speak to him…”

“So he’s not been executed?”

“Executed?” Tom looked amused. “Hardly…”

Will’s eyes almost filled with relieved tears, but he turned away and fought them down. When he spoke again, he growled low in his throat to conceal his emotion. “So did he say anything at all? Was he off to Canterbury or something?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then where?”

“I told you, I don’t know!” Tom snapped. “I never fucking know, don’t you get it?”

Will sat down on the bed that the two poets shared to save money, and from which he had just dragged Tom. There would still be stray hairs in the sheets, the scent of Kit’s body, mute traces of an absent man that refused to give away his secrets.

“What can I say, the guy has an uncanny ability to disappear,” Tom said, spreading his hands. “He could be at Cambridge, in France, in Spain… anywhere.”

“Spain?” Will looked up, confused images of that ever-present threat louring on his mind like rainclouds. “What business would he have in Spain?”

Tom shrugged irritably. “Maybe he got an assignment.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something to do with… you know, matters of state.”

Will frowned. “You’re saying he’s… employed by the government?”

Tom laughed without mirth. “What do you two talk about if you don’t even know that? He’s always off on some secret mission.”

“Like what?”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Want me to define ‘secret’ for you?”

Will bit his lip. He didn’t know a thing about that man. Kit had been deep inside him, but Will hadn’t penetrated one inch beneath Kit’s skin.

Then suddenly, as if two parts of his brain had suddenly come into contact with one another, the image came to him: the staring man in his flapping cloak, bearing news from the government… He had seen him before – in Stratford, of all places. In his own home. Posing as a priest, searching Warwickshire for signs of treason. Will had met that icy stare across the dusty floor of the Shaksper attic, after hiding a Catholic will between the rafters.

Poley. That was his name.

And suddenly it all fell into place. Tom wasn’t lying. If Kit had business with that man, anything was possible. Poley was a killer and a spy, a man with no scruples, and Kit had willingly left in his company. Now that Will thought about it, there had been a hard look in Kit’s eyes, as if he was steeling himself for something. No doubt he knew what lay in store for him. Knew what sort of assignment he’d have to accept just to pay for his release.

Will slumped on the bed, all strength leaving him at once. Whatever qualms he had had about his continued friendship with Kit, they were no longer relevant. Kit had passed out of his reach as surely as if Poley had indeed been the Grim Reaper.

“Well…” he sighed, and the struggled to his feet. “Thank you, I suppose…”


	13. Chorus: 1616

The morning quietly morphed into afternoon while Will and Richard stayed in his room, Will in his bed and Richard on a chair beside it. Susanna came in a few times to bring them new ale, coughing in the thick, golden haze of smoke. Will could just imagine what she was thinking. Her doctor husband didn’t think much of the dried grass of Virginia. But Will was fifty-two years old now. Old enough to do what he wanted.

If only what he wanted was possible.

Sighing, he looked at Richard – at patient, trusting, decent Richard, who put up with anything and everything. Why did he do it? What had he ever got in return but a few acting parts?

A thin veil of moisture clouded Will’s eyes. In the softest voice, he said, “I wish I could have fallen in love with you instead.”

For a long time, Richard didn’t make a sound. When he did speak, he kept his eyes averted. “So you’re finally admitting it.”

Will breathed out, relaxing for the first time since forever. “Special confession for you, my friend.”

Richard nodded slowly. “And did you two ever…?”

“Have sex?” Will meant to laugh, but the laugh caught in his throat and turned into something else. “Yes.”

A muscle twitched in Richard’s face. Was this the final straw? Had Will finally ruined it? Was this too much information even for their seasoned friendship to endure?

“You wouldn’t have got that from me,” he said.

This time, Will really did laugh. “Like I’d want to!”

They sat in silence for a while. Then Richard asked, still not looking at him, “So… what’s it like?”

Will’s jaw set. “I’m not telling you, because I don’t want you to throw up on my bedroom floor.”

“That bad, eh?”

Will glared at him. “You’ve never asked me what it was like with Agnes.”

“I don’t need to.”

Will snorted. “So you’re the one who’s been sneaking freebies behind my back? I always did think Judith looked a bit like you. Those ridiculously big eyes…”

Richard made a face. “I mean–”

“You mean you think you know what it’s like because she’s a woman. But what do you think she and Winifred have in common?”

Richard shrugged. “You’re right, I suppose. But–”

“But taking it up the rear?” Will tried not to be hurt by his friend’s disgusted face. “Well… the basic principles are the same.”

Richard swallowed laboriously. “How can they be?”

He was trying to understand, and Will wasn’t making it easy for him. But what were the right words to describe such an act? “You enter… or you are entered by… another human being. There is the heat, the moisture, the overwhelming urge to get deeper, deeper…” Will stopped. Something was threatening to choke him.

Richard finally looked at him. “Jesus, you really did love that son of a bitch, didn’t you?”

“Do,” Will corrected him softly.

“So I suppose it was stupid of me to be jealous.” Richard sighed. “I wasn’t jealous of Agnes.”

The silence took over. They just sat there for a long time, Will battling with the rising lump in his throat and a cold fire in his stomach. Richard had used the past tense. _I wasn’t jealous of Agnes._ Because there wasn’t anything to be jealous of any longer. Not only Kit had slipped out of Will’s reach, but his wife, too. Trapped in a cage of muteness, she just lay on her own in their conjugal bed, half her body limp and useless and the other half resigned to her fate. Since their son died and she had the attack, she hadn’t spoken a word.

Maybe it was Will’s punishment for leaving her here and going to London. When he wooed her, he had vowed not to repeat Dick’s betrayal, and what had he done? Followed in his very footsteps. No punishment could be too harsh, Will knew that. Besides, it was a long time since he even cared. He could take anything. The worst had already happened anyway. Closing his eyes, he dared to give himself a little to the smoke. Let the genies be woken in his blood, let his rational self float away on a sea of confusion.

But almost at once, the grief welled up in him, fresh and sharp like a serpent’s tooth. Gasping, he opened his eyes again, and his bedroom took shape where a country manor had threatened to eclipse it.

Just then, there was a noise from the stairs outside Will’s room. Heavy, purposeful steps. _Oh, no._ Right on cue. That tosser didn’t even need summoning to come scurrying. Will waved his hands, trying to disperse the smoke, but when the door opened, the man who came in wasn’t Doctor Hall. Nor was it a servant.

Stiffening in his bed, Will just stared. Behind the visitor, Susanna appeared, breathless from hurrying up the stairs. “Who are you?” she demanded.

At the sight of her, the man started visibly. “I’m, ah… a friend,” the husky baritone of Dick Field announced. “Of…” He hesitated visibly before proceeding with the lie. “Of your father’s.”

The silence in the room deepened. A _friend_?

“Hey, Dickie,” Will smiled at his uninvited guest. Dick’s lip twitched at the diminutive. He was fingering a pile of papers, and his eyes darted between Will and Susanna. Eyes narrowing at the sight of that pile, Will remembered the shadowy figure that had followed them home last night. Had it been Dick? Will wouldn’t put it past him to lurk at the periphery of their carousing for the sole purpose of congratulating himself on his own Protestant restraint.

“You’re here to gloat?” he asked.

Dick looked genuinely baffled. “About what?”

“About winning.”

“What do you mean, winning?”

“I’m lying here dying and you’re as healthy as ever.”

An expression which could almost be mistaken for sorrow passed over Dick’s face. But Will knew him. He could imitate any emotion to get ahead. He should have been the actor, not Will. If only his Protestant morals had let him, perhaps he would have. Instead he had made use of it in other ways. And so had Will. Their whole lives, at the periphery of each other’s acquaintance, was a sham, a spectacle to fool the gullible masses. Neither of them was what he played.

Will glanced at Susanna, at Richard. They should see the resemblance, everyone should. But if they did, they made no sign. The lie was so seamlessly contrived that nobody thought to question it. It was the most successful fiction of his life, more convincing than _Hamlet_ , more history-skewing than _Henry IV_. If it were played on a stage, he wouldn’t believe it.

And yet here they were, years down the road, and everything had played out just like he had planned it. Everyone involved had acted their part, and Will had collected his reward for spinning the improbable yarn. The only thing missing was the applause.

Cheeks reddening just the slightest bit, Will resolutely met Dick’s gaze. By now Agnes was well and truly his wife. The years had proven her so. Besides, even if Dick had wanted her back, there wasn’t much to have now. Had he seen her, coming in here? Had he baulked at what she had become? Maybe he congratulated himself on not joining himself to what would become such a broken woman. Maybe he laughed at Will for taking his scraps.

Shuddering, Will pushed Agnes out of his mind. He had paid for remedies, had even let Doctor Hall come here on his own free time to see to her. Nothing had helped. Not even his own belated presence.

“So what do you want?”

Jarred out of his hesitation, Dick stepped forward and laid his pile of papers on Will’s lap. A broken seal caught Will’s eyes, crumbling under a piece of string that held the bundle together. Squinting to make out the shape, he felt a chill spread through his body. “What’s this?”

Dick gulped, glanced at the window. “I don’t… really know. I’m just the messenger.”

“But surely you know what your message is.”

“Well… the answer, I suppose.”

“To what?”

Dick’s mouth quirked a little. “The question?”

Will stared at the pile of papers, afraid to touch it. The seal had been broken long ago, but he still recognised it. It was Thomas Walsingham’s.

There was an ugly sound in his throat, and he had to swallow. Walsingham. Scadbury manor. Hero and Leander, the moat…

Looking up at Dick again, he bit out, “But what is it?”

Dick’s jaw tensed. He glanced at Richard. Will saw the unspoken plea, and rolled his eyes. “Richard, would you mind?”

Scowling, Richard rose from his chair and left the room. When the door closed behind him, Dick sat down. “Go on. Have a look.”

A deep tremble was spreading through Will’s marrow. He was growing dizzy. And still Dick kept watching him, expecting him to do something.

What?

“Turn it over.”

Hand cramping, Will obeyed. His throat hurt, and for a brief moment, he stopped breathing. The writing on the other side was well known to him. The room filled with Kit’s taunting smile as Will read the words: For my puppy.

The world seemed to shrink, to become a mere narrow tunnel. There was just enough light to guide his hand to the string. Pulling at it, he undid the knot, and the pile of sheets spread out over his lap.

The first thing he saw was an early version of _Come live with me_. And beneath that… was everything else. Everything Kit had ever written. The manuscript versions of _Edward_ and _Tamburlaine_ and _Massacre_. Every little flight of fancy, every fragment. Scattered ideas, even a few charcoal sketches. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, anything to stay the tears, but the writing grew blurred and his breathing shaky. Walsingham had kept these papers all this time? And Dick had got his hands on them – how? Not to mention, why the hell did he think of bringing them to Will?

Blinking, he tried to read Dick’s face, but it was inscrutable. Looking down again, he reached the very bottom of the pile, and the pièce de résistance: _Hero and Leander_. His chest cramped as his eyes picked out the familiar first line: _On Hellespont, guilty of true love’s blood, in view and opposite two cities stood._ So reminiscent of his own attempts, and so superior to anything of his. _Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona where we lay our scene._ Everything he had done, he had stolen from Kit. Every single word.

Against his will, his mind filled with the gentle evening breeze of Scadbury manor, with candles long gone out and perfumes long evaporated. The whole poem was well known to him, branded into his mind like a Tyburn ‘T’. But when he neared the place where Kit had left the story hanging, the unresolved ending, he realised that there were more pages, lines that he had never seen. Ribs closing on his lungs, he devoured them, drank their bitter sweetness like siren tears. Kit had finished the poem after all, had seen it through to the bitter end – to the scene where Leander drowned.

Only he didn’t die. Battling the rising lump in his throat, Will tried to speak, but there was nothing more to say. Kit had said it all. Because Leander did indeed throw himself in the Hellespont, just like he did in the original – but not to reach _her_. Instead he swam a little way across the river and then stopped, closed his eyes and let himself sink. Because the only way he could be with his true love was to let himself be pulled down into the blue depths of King Neptune’s azure palace, there to breathe water and make love to him forever.

He was vaguely aware of Dick moving towards him, throwing an arm around his hunched shoulders, before the river of tears broke the dams and poured out of his limp and lifeless body. With every breath, with every wave that pulsed out of him, one name crashed against the pebbled shores inside of him. Crying, crying to him, forever lost. _Kit, Kit, Kit…_ to the last syllable of recorded time.


	14. 1590

Will had never imagined that it could hurt so much. After all, he had spent most of his time in London avoiding Kit. Now that the man was actually gone, that should make his situation easier. Instead, he felt like a rabbit on a spit, slowly roasting over a fire that would never burn down.

He tried to keep busy, tried to concentrate on reading, on writing, on drinking with his actor friends. But in the midst of carousing, he would zone out and lose himself in memories: the tingling touch of Kit’s tongue on his nipples; the slip-sliding of their lips against each other; how Kit’s cock had swollen in his hand like a living thing. It was difficult to believe that they had only spent one night together. In Will’s mind, those few and distant hours had grown into a whole separate life, a world he had lived in for ages, and which he was desperate to get back to.

But Kit was gone, and Will wasn’t living any kind of life at all. He still hadn’t had any poems published, and he certainly hadn’t had a play performed. He was beginning to think that he just didn’t have what it took. But when he thought about going home, the mere prospect was enough to cut his heart in two.

So he did the only thing he could think of: he sought out Robert, for a final attempt at that long planned collaboration.

“Okay, so we need a scene where we see Gloucester’s ambition.” Robert jabbed the unwritten sheet between them with a grubby finger. Will watched and felt his blood simmer with weary annoyance.

“I can’t find anything about Gloucester being ambitious in Holinshed,” he muttered, even as he knew that it was an absurd thing to say.

Robert sneered. “If you want to be a writer, you have to make things up. And Gloucester is the whole point of the play.”

“Yes, but what if we put in a scene which is completely at odds with what really happened?” Will insisted, unable to refrain from bickering. “If we lie about history?”

Robert stared at him, perhaps trying to decide whether Will was really that stupid or if he was only trying to pick a fight. “Well firstly, nobody would be the wiser,” he explained with forced patience. “Not everyone spends their days scrutinising historical documents, you know. And secondly, this is _our_ story. We can rewrite the past to suit our purposes.”

Robert was right, of course, but Will refused to trust him. He knew he was being ridiculous: he was the one who suggested they collaborate, after all. But now that he sat here, in the dusty afternoon bustle of the Mermaid, the mere sight of Robert’s ugly beard made him furious. What he really wanted was to make it on his own. To show the world that he was just as talented as the city-born, as the university educated.

But he wasn’t. He needed the help, however reluctant he was to admit it. Needed someone else’s opinion – someone whose writing he admired, someone…

He swallowed hard. “When I wrote Constance’s speech, I went back to the original facts,” he lied.

Robert laughed condescendingly. “And I had to scrap half of it.”

“Yes, you scrapped everything that was truly feminine about her!” Will was getting worked up. It didn’t matter that the quarrel had strayed from the original topic. He wanted to punish someone, to see blood. “What remained was a stick figure, hardly worth the ink it was written with.”

Robert scoffed. “And what do you know about women?”

_Enough to fool you._

“We just have to accept that they’re an alien breed,” Robert said. “It’s not our job to understand them.”

Will looked up in genuine surprise. “Excuse me?”

“It’s not for us to look inside their hearts. Only God can do that. Just put your words into their mouths and get the work done.”

 _Then what’s the point?_ Will didn’t ask. Instead he said, “So you think we should make Henry some kind of saint and Margaret a manipulative witch.”

Robert turned his head towards the door, lips twitching with unsaid curses. Will clenched his teeth, trying to calm down. What was he doing, antagonising the one person who deigned to work with him? He was cutting the branch he was sitting on, perhaps intentionally. If he screwed this up, he could finally go home. Maybe in Stratford he could lose himself in Agnes’s embrace and forget all about that one night in his lodgings.

When Robert looked back at Will again, he seemed to have reached a decision. “Tell you what, why don’t you go home and read some more Holinshed, and we’ll pick this up again tomorrow?”

Will froze. Robert’s smile was friendly, but there was a jagged edge to it. “Yes,” he replied hesitantly, trying to read that thin face. “I suppose we won’t get any further today.”

Robert’s smile grew into a grin, and Will realised what he had just agreed to: this wasn’t a collaboration anymore. It was a battle.

“So let’s meet again tomorrow and go through our respective material,” Robert said. “At ten?”

Will forced a pleasant chuckle. “We’ll just take this day off, then.”

Robert nodded. Then he met Will’s gaze, and they sized each other up for a few moments. Will’s heart lurched into a faster, heavier pace. Slumbering ambition sparked to life in his chest. The thought of crushing Robert’s self-satisfied smirk made his blood simmer.

Yes. He could do this. This was exactly what he needed to distract him: a competition.

Standing, he raised a hand in farewell and turned his back. Tomorrow at ten. He would have to have a whole play ready by then. It was laughable, impossible. But he had just agreed to it, and time was already running out. Still, he had all the background material he needed, so he didn’t have to go over that again. With the help of Holinshed’s timeline he could probably piece something together.

He made himself walk away slowly, pretending to be relaxed. He mustn’t give anything away to that simpering fool. Must appear confident, sure of his success…

But as soon as he stepped outside, he started running. Back at the tavern, Robert would be tearing into the subject matter at this very instant, scribbling furiously to get there first, to be the only one with a whole play tomorrow. Will had to get started within half an hour, or he would be irrevocably lost. It was a duel, and his life as a writer was at stake. This could be his big break if he handled the situation intelligently.

But how to get the words on paper? He still couldn’t handle a quill very well. Even if he just jotted down the bare essentials, there wasn’t enough time. Maybe Richard could help him? Or Jack, or Augustine… But of course they were all engaged for a performance this afternoon. Then who?

Kit.

But he was out of reach. Ignoring the twinge in his heart, Will ran on, forcing himself to think while his feet pounded their way up the filthy street. Maybe a scribe could do it? Cheered by the thought, he turned north towards Shoreditch to reach the Curtain before the doors opened to the public. A crowd was already gathering when he arrived, and he went round the back to find Augustine and Jack in their stage attire, smoking to calm their premiere nerves. He grabbed hold of Jack and almost shouted at him to reveal the whereabouts of the scribe.

Jack frowned. “At home, of course.”

“What? Why?”

“His w-work here is done for today.”

“And where does he live?”

“In Hackney.”

“Hackney? But that’s miles from here!”

“Yeah…”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Will rushed out of the playhouse and then stopped short, crestfallen in the middle of Curtain Road. An endless rolling landscape separated him from his presumptive saviour. What the hell was he to do? Writing the play on his own was impossible, he knew that. Of course he could try his luck and simply show up tomorrow with the whole play in his head, but he doubted that Robert would accept that as a valid contribution. To win this, he had to have a physical copy.

He racked his brains. Whom did he know that could write fast? _Kit_ , his mind pleaded again, and he recoiled from the name as if from fire. He mustn’t think about him. It would only distract him, trip him up. Kit was history, and so was their friendship. Their paths would never cross again.

Who then? He rubbed his forehead. Most of his friends were actors, not widely known for their scholarly pretensions. One of the writers, perhaps. Nashe? He would laugh in Will’s face. Tom? Was out of town. Watson? Still in Newgate. Who else? George? Yes, George was his best bet. Granted, he was a lazy bastard, but he might just agree to do this in order to piss off Robert.

Will began running again, this time towards Southwark. Half an hour must have passed now since he left his opponent, half an hour of precious time during which Robert had probably finished two whole scenes. If Will was to have a fighting chance of completing his play before morning, he had to start composing it now. Why, oh why hadn’t he suggested a later meeting? Why not at one o’clock, or even five in the afternoon?

On the other hand, Robert must also be suffering from the shortage of time. Perhaps the stress would encumber his thinking. At least that’s what Will had to tell himself as he flew down Gracechurch Street and the first lines began to form in his head. Running, he couldn’t rely on his feet to count out the rhythm of the verse, so he had to keep time in his head instead. It was more difficult, but at least he knew how the play would begin: with the meeting between King Henry and his intended bride, Gloucester a brooding, sharp-eyed presence at the outskirts. It was a concession to Robert’s argument, of course, but Will would be a fool to ignore good advice.

Passing the Cross Keys, he had to take a detour because of a horde of apprentices surging down the road. They looked like they were on the warpath, and he didn’t have the time to be caught up in any brawls. But when he turned the corner into Thames Street, there they were again, moving straight towards him. Turning on his heel, he hesitated a moment too long and was caught up in the middle of the throng of people baying for blood. There were hundreds of them, and they were moving towards the Bridge. It was best to let himself be dragged along with them.

_The rebels are in Southwark; fly, my Lord!_

Maybe he could use it. People were always complaining about lack of money, of food. Rebels in Southwark… but what rebels? Cade and his men, naturally. His army is a… what? A ragged multitude of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless…

As the crowd reached the river, Will ducked under the raised arm of a shouting youngster and headed for the relative safety of the Bridge. The riot was exciting curiosity and he had to move against the current of people gathering at the north end to watch, but as soon as he had toiled his way through that bottleneck, his path was relatively clear. On a normal day, it would take almost an hour to cross, but today the merchants and residents and shopkeepers were all perched on roofs in order not to miss the fun of public rioting, so he made it across quite quickly. Picking up speed, he raced through the gates onto the south bank, his dry lungs on the verge of bursting. Please be at home, please be at home…

When he finally arrived, he didn’t pause to knock, but heaved the door open and flew up the stairs without explaining himself to the landlady. But as he barged into George’s room, the first thing he saw was the sling on his arm. A moment of disbelief – what did it mean? which arm was wounded? was it really the right one? no, it couldn’t be – and then Will’s knees buckled under him and he sank to the floor.

George ran to him, surprised at the intrusion.

“Please…” Will wheezed. “Please tell me you can still write.”

George laughed and waved his useless arm, but stopped to wince at the pain that must be shooting through it. “I was caught in the riot this morning,” he explained. “Why?”

_O, graceless men! They know not what they do…_

“I need someone to write for me.”

George smiled ruefully. “Sorry.”

Will hung his head in dejection. This was the end of his career. He never should have come to this stupid place at all. Everything that had happened since he set foot in London had been a mistake, and this was another sign that he should leave.

“I don’t know how to advise you.” George was patting his shoulder awkwardly. “Unless you know a printer or something.”

Will looked up, his body flashing cold. “What?”

“I mean, a printer could help you out. Of course, they have their hands full with other stuff, so I wouldn’t get my hopes up. Unless, as I said, you know somebody. Or have a hold on them.”

Will just stared at him, stunned. Then he shook his head weakly. He had already given up. He couldn’t muster the strength again. But he knew that he had to. A last ray of hope had pierced through the clouds, and he must follow the light. He almost laughed out loud at the irony of it. Dick Field, his last hope. His saviour.

What a joke.

With heavy limbs and even heavier heart, he rose, thanked George for the tip, and wished him a speedy recovery.

***

The banging noises trickled out through cracks in the door and windows. Once again he stood in front of the printer’s shop, a place he had vowed never to revisit. Did God want to mock him, or maybe punish him for his hubris? Last time he had been here, he had burgled the place with Kit. In the end, they hadn’t stolen anything, and Dick didn’t know who the intruders were. But Will knew, and the knowledge should make him feel powerful. He had the upper hand – in more ways than one.

 _Well, Susanna_ , he thought, _there’s a reason for everything._

Unruly pulse barely in check, he entered. Inside, there was shouting and irritability and hurry. Weaving his way through the clutter of tables, clients and machinery, Will soon caught sight of Dick, in the middle of a heated conversation with an employee. Judging from the spittle that flew from his lips as he roared at the man, his old knack of concealing his emotions seemed to have forsaken him. Eyeing them coolly, Will suddenly felt like another Poley. Just like the spy, he was using information to force compliance. Just like him, he used others to get ahead.

At that moment, Dick saw him. “Willie.” He wasn’t pleased. “What do you want?”

Will’s heart sank. If he had had some half-baked notion of appealing to Dick’s empathy, that idea died now. “Trouble?” he asked, attempting jocularity.

Dick scowled and waved his worker away. “The stupid oaf thinks we should take on more work to make more money. He doesn’t care that making a good copy takes time, and we already have enough work. We have work up to our ears, damn it. We’re drowning in it! And my stupid apprentice has joined that stupid mob of no-good rioters, clamouring for higher pay and God knows what! So if you have come here to get some new piece of shit printed, you can forget it. I don’t have the time.”

Will’s breath caught in his throat, but he was only speechless for a moment or two. Despair gave way to desperate strength. “No, not a poem. A play. And I need it done by tomorrow morning.”

Dick’s laugh sounded like metal grating against stone. “You’re a funny man, Willie, I grant you that.”

“If you don’t do it, I’ll spread the fact that you have an illegitimate child.”

Dick stiffened. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

Will smiled. “You forget that I am married to Agnes. Anne. And the first fruit of her womb isn’t mine.”

Dick’s blue eyes widened in horror. A white streak appeared by his nostrils. “What?”

“You have a daughter, Dick.”

Dick stared at him. Will looked back calmly. Then Dick grabbed his arm and dragged him into the inner sanctum of his shop, a narrow sort of office where he kept his ledgers. “A daughter?” His voice was shaky.

“Yes.”

“And how do I know that you’re not lying about this supposed child of mine?” Dick asked, but his bravado was superficial. He knew what he had done to his one-time fiancée, and he knew how children were conceived.

“You don’t,” Will shrugged. “But I can spread the rumours anyway, and then bring the girl to London for all to see how strong an inheritance you’ve left her.” He paused, savouring Dick’s confused frown. “Her eyes, Dick. It’s too obvious.”

Dick sat down heavily. “You’re blackmailing me.”

“I suppose I am.”

“You want me to print a whole play overnight.”

“That would be very helpful of you.”

“How long is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s not composed yet.”

Dick collapsed in weary giggles. Then he shook his head. “You’re mad.”

“I never said I wasn’t.”

“You’re leaving me no choice.”

“I know.”

“Fuck you.”

Will grinned, elation filling him. It was working! He hadn’t dared to hope, but it was actually working. “You’ll be glad to have helped me when it becomes a hit,” he offered. “Besides, you owe me a printing.”

Dick sat for a few moments, limp like a plant that had gone without water for too long. Then all of a sudden he stood up, brisk and business-like and seemingly determined to see the crazy project through. “So how will this work?”

“I tell you what to print and you have your minions perform it.”

Dick scoffed. “They won’t.”

“Then do it yourself. It’s your choice.” Will fought to keep his voice hard and relentless. This wasn’t at all like him, but if he was to get his copy done on time, he had to play the part. “In thirteen hours the news of your bastard will be out. What’s it to be?”

A moment of hesitation, of quivering nostrils. Then Dick led Will into the printing room without another word. The workers were packing up, and he stopped them with a few barked orders. Surprised, but too cowed to question his orders, they left the things lying and scuttled out, cap in hand. Perhaps they were relieved at this un-looked for leniency.

“So, genius. How does the bloody thing begin?”

“Begin?” Will ran his fingers through his hair and started pacing the room. “Flourish of trumpets, big procession, all the important characters on stage…”

“I’m supposed to print that?”

“No, no, wait… I’ll start with something else. Let’s see… Cade.”

“Cade?”

“Yes.”

Dick hesitated.

“Fifteenth century rebel,” Will explained.

“I know who he is!” Dick snarled, but his hands hung indecisively over the box of types. Then he shrugged. “Cade it is.”

“He says: _Fie on ambition! fie on myself, that have a sword, and yet am ready to famish!_ ”

“Wait, wait!” Dick hollered. “Goodness, is that the pace you’re planning to keep? What did you say, fie on me, that…”

“No, on myself.”

“Jesus…” Dick fumbled with his types.

“Don’t take His name in vain, Dick,” Will chuckled, nervousness chopping the sound into jagged bits. Dick gave him a brief glare before turning back to the types. “You want me to help you?” Will asked.

“With that hand of yours?” Dick muttered.

“It’s grown fairly straight. I can do anything I want with it.”

“Except write.”

Will bit his lip, but refused to take the bait. Instead he ploughed on into the terra incognita of the as yet unwritten play. “ _These five days have I hid me…_ uh, _in these woods. And… and durst not peep out, for all the country is laid for me._ ”

Dick’s elegant fingers danced between the boxes of types and the machine. His face was hard with concentration, or maybe with something else. Seeing that rigid mask of resentment, Will remembered the performance of Arachne, when Dick had forgotten his lines and Will had fed them to him, reciting from his perfect memory. It had saved Dick’s face, and he had never forgiven Will for it.

“What’s the story, then?” he asked.

“What?”

Dick snapped his fingers. “The play. Next line, please.”

“ _Ah, villain, thou wilt betray me._ It’s about Henry VI.”

Dick whistled. “And Jack Cade. A bit audacious, don’t you think?”

“Why?”

Dick looked up with an incredulous expression on his face. “Spain?”

Will cocked his head. “I’m not saying we’ll lose against them.” His words sounded hollow to his own ears. Of course they would lose. Nobody could stand up to Spain, least of all a foggy little island with nothing to eat but turnips and stale bread. He shrugged. “Don’t worry, it’ll still be properly patriotic. _And get a thousand crowns of the king carrying my head to him._ ”

Dick made a face, but continued working in silence. Will spoke the lines and watched Dick’s fingers assign the types, printing word after word, filling the pages. A sense of wonder filled him. His trick had worked, and quickly too. He had found the one weapon that worked against a man like Dick. Anyone else might have shrugged at the news that he had a bastard, but for Dick, reputation was everything. Nothing must sully his good name.

“I thought of volunteering,” Dick mumbled suddenly.

“What?”

“Against Spain.”

Will smiled wanly. “ _Thy grave is digg’d already in the earth._ ”

Dick’s hands paused. “That’s supposed to be in the play or are you just mocking me for my dedication?”

“It’s supposed to be in the play.”

Dick’s hands started flying again.

“ _Die, damned wretch, the curse of her that bare thee_ ,” Will went on. “What’s the point of joining? It’s a lost cause.”

Dick paused again. “Are you really that ignorant or are you just lazy? If the Spanish win, nothing will ever be the same again! Everyone must take responsibility for this in one way or another.”

Will raised his eyebrows. “We’ll be Catholics again, I suppose.”

“And that’s fine with you.”

“To each his own.”

Dick smiled bitterly. “Do what you want in the privacy of your own home? Yeah, right. These people will never be content to sit at home and burn their incense – no, they want to brag about it in public and make a big show.”

Will looked at him. ‘These people’? Wasn’t he included in that group anymore?

“Well, here is one man they won’t convince,” Dick muttered.

“Because a man’s religion is between him and his God and no blathering priest can come between them?” Will smiled.

“That’s right,” Dick said without looking up from his work. “My prayers are for His ears only. He sees into my heart and doesn’t need an interpreter.”

“Makes going to church quite meaningless, don’t you think?”

For the duration of a heartbeat, Dick’s hands wavered. Then he bit out, “Next line, please.”

***

The sun was high in the sky when Dick finally cut the last few sheets and arranged them in the right order. The floor under Will’s feet lurched dangerously and he stumbled into a chair. He hadn’t eaten or slept or even rested since last night, only walked to and fro on Dick’s cluttered floor, torturing his mind into producing a whole play out of nothing.

“So you married her, eh?”

Will yawned and rubbed his eyes. “I did.”

“What a gallant thing to do.”

Will smiled. “It was worth it.” At the same time, his heart ached at his secret betrayal.

“Anyone who hasn’t had Jacqueline knows nothing about the joys of the flesh,” Dick sniffed.

Outside, St Paul’s struck nine and Dick handed Will the pile of papers. Will took them, but Dick held on to them for a few moments and met Will’s gaze. “You’ve got some guts,” he muttered. Will tensed, heart a cramping fist in his chest.

Then Dick let go, and Will went out into the busy morning street. Clutching the play to his chest, he hurried to the playhouse, where rehearsals would be in full swing. He knew he was flouting the rules of the game, of course, by going directly to the Admiral’s Men instead of the tavern he was supposed to meet Robert in. But he had already played the villain to get it done, and he was actually quite pleased with the result. He wanted the chance to show it to Edward first.

Heaving open the door to the Rose, he strode towards the stage. Only when he opened his mouth to announce his arrival did he realise that Robert was already there. “What…?”

Robert turned to look at him, shaking with silent laughter. Then he jerked his head at the stage, where the players were already reading from a manuscript. His manuscript. Will stopped short, realisation hitting him like lightning. Robert had beaten him by finishing early. And Will couldn’t even muster self-righteous anger, because what had he done himself? Cheated and lied and blackmailed to get his version done.

Heaving a resigned sigh, he still stepped up to Edward and held out his pages. “Sorry I’m late.”

Edward took the play with a pouty frown. “What’s this?”

“It’s _Henry VI_. Robert didn’t tell you? This is the definitive version. As you can see from the way it’s already printed.” He shot Robert a narrow-eyed look.

“What the fuck?” Robert was instantly furious. “It’s a printed play? An _old_ play? That wasn’t the deal.”

“The deal was to present a play today. And for your information, it was printed during the night, so it’s not old.”

Edward’s eyes widened in surprise. Bringing printed plays to rehearsals was unheard of. Between the first sketchy outlines to the book stalls at St Paul’s lay many years of performance and rewriting.

“You’re supposed to choose between them,” Robert explained, anxious to regain the upper hand. “We wrote one each, you see, so that you could decide which one was the better–”

Edward gestured impatiently. “I’m sorry, we don’t have the time to settle writers’ differences.” He made to hand Will’s play back.

“I completely understand if you want to proceed with my play,” Robert simpered. “You’ve probably conned the lines already.”

Edward bristled. “What, we’re too stupid to learn new ones?”

Robert floundered, realising he had put his foot in it.

“Why don’t you run through both of them?” Will suggested, and the company went deathly quiet. Everyone’s attention turned to him. His mouth suddenly dry, he spoke louder, broad grin belying his melting innards. “I mean, you can feel for yourselves which words fit best. Choose the play that sits better on the tongue. You are the experts on practical rhetoric.”

He was grovelling outrageously, but better that than barging in like Robert, thinking he was God Almighty.

Edward sighed impatiently. He didn’t like this one bit. “Alright, alright. We’ll do them both. Jesus. It’s a good job us actors don’t have as fragile egos as you writers do. We need to collaborate all the time.”

Furtive glances behind Edward’s back told a different story, but Will and Robert both nodded in eager agreement. Quickly taking their seats in front of the stage, they listened as the company picked up their interrupted run-through. Will soon understood that they had been working for quite a while and were getting close to the ending. Robert must have been here very early indeed. Perhaps he had had an almost finished play up his sleeve already, for all their pretence at collaboration.

The climax of the story approached and passed. Wincing in envy at the elegant peripeteia, Will remembered his own rickety structure. Robert was the more accomplished dramatist, no doubt about it.

The read-through ended, and Edward handed out Will’s sheets to the grumbling actors. Pulse swelling, Will held his breath as Augustine began reading. His voice was so soft that Will barely heard it through the rushing in his ears, but after a while, it grew more forceful. And as Will listened, the dead ink on his pages quickened like new buds in spring, awakened by the heat of the sun. The actors breathed life into his text, like God did to Adam. It was a miracle, an act of alchemy – and Will suddenly ached with the all-consuming wish that it would indeed be played on a stage. Kit’s words to him the first time they met echoed in his mind – _to have an artiste like Edward Alleyne read your words aloud is better than sex_ – and he swallowed in equal parts awe and unease. He wanted this. Oh God, he wanted it, and his half-baked notion of leaving all of it behind to go home was just ridiculous. He couldn’t leave. This was his dream.

But as soon as the wonder wore off, Will realised that others were not as rapt. The actors’ already forced attention was scattering. The youngest of the boys began whispering among themselves, and their whispers gradually turned to murmurs, and thence to low talk. Eyes trailed off into the distance, fingers started drumming. Heart a millstone in his chest, Will knew that he was losing them, just like he would be losing an actual audience, and he could do nothing to stop it. The words were already printed, so he couldn’t change them now. The written word was absolute.

And so the torture went on, as the play stretched out into an eternity of shame. The actors, bored by the incoherent story, lost track of their lines and missed their cues and laughed loudly at their mistakes. Will could only watch while they tore his narrative to shreds with their raucous jokes. If the play was bad, who better to judge it than actors, whose profession it was to perform it?

The last line was spoken, and Edward looked up at his troupe. “Well?”

There were some shrugs and shifty glances. Nobody was willing to deliver the dreadful verdict: that the play was a piece of crap. “There were some nice soliloquies,” Augustine offered kindly. There was a murmur of agreement from some of the men. The boys just rolled their eyes.

“There’s not much for me to work with,” Kempe said. “Then again, that’s how I like it. I can extemporise.”

“But the structure doesn’t work, does it?” Robert cut in, cocky with assured success.

“Without a doubt, yours is better dramaturgically,” Edward mumbled, but he looked troubled. He held one play in each hand, Will’s neat and pretty copy in one and Robert’s jumbled pages in the other. “Kit’s right, there’s something… _unique_ about Will’s language. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s… I like it.”

Will fought down a stunned blush and only half succeeded. Kit had said…?

Edward turned to face first him and then Robert. “Do you think maybe you could… merge them? I like the rhythm of your story, Robert, but in many instances I prefer your poetry, Will.”

Will and Robert looked at each other.

“I mean, why did you have to write two plays to begin with?” Edward asked. “Weren’t you supposed to work together?”

“We were, but–” Robert caught himself. Perhaps he deemed it unwise to berate a writer whose language the star actor had just praised. “But our styles are so different.”

“Well, that’s not my problem. Why don’t you two go home and rewrite this mess so that it reads like one play? Keep Robert’s structure and throw in lots of Will’s speeches and dialogue. And be ready by Saturday. We need a new play for next week.” Will and Robert both nodded as they received their respective piles of paper, seething inside at the prospect of each other’s unwanted company. “Oh, and… your fee.” Edward rummaged in his purse and produced a few coins for each of them. “Make sure you deliver, now.”

Robert left quickly, but Will stayed put, looking at the meagre sum in his hand. “Three pounds?”

“Yes.”

“Richard said the going rate for a new play was six pounds.”

Edward looked surprised. “It is.”

“So what’s this then?”

Edward smiled patiently. “It’s six pounds per play. Not per playwright. I’m not interested in writers, only in what you produce. And that, consequently, is what I pay for.”

Dizzy with disappointment, Will put the coins in his purse. “I just don’t know how I’m supposed to live on three pounds,” he muttered. “I have a family to support back in Stratford.”

“It sounds like a conundrum and no mistake,” Edward replied cheerfully. Will glared at him. “Look, I have to think about the welfare of my company, and times are lean for us as well.”

“That’s why your wardrobe is so lavish?” Will gestured at the actors.

Edward shrugged. “Those were gifts from the earl of Oxford.”

There was no winning this argument. Will realised that he was beginning to look stupid. “But if I can’t live on my fee,” he delivered his parting shot, “I won’t be able to write any more plays for you.”

Edward laughed out loud and then put a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Well, we’ll have to try and survive that.”

Dejected, Will made for the door. He would just have to find someone new to collaborate with on another play really soon. He would prefer to write something on his own, of course, but he obviously hadn’t mastered the craft yet. What he needed was a friend, a fellow wordsmith he could bear to work with. An image of Kit surfaced in his mind, together with such disturbing sensations in his body that he almost choked.

“Hey,” Edward called as Will was about to close the door behind him. “If you want a few shillings extra, you could take on a part.”

Will stopped dead in his tracks. “Wh… what?”

“You’re in luck, we’ll be needing a Salisbury.”

Will hesitated. “You mean act in my own play?”

“Indeed.”

Will recoiled inwardly. The mere thought threw him into a cold sweat.

“I know it’s debasing,” Edward smiled wryly. “But if you want money, you have to work.”

He was right. It couldn’t be helped. Will’s purse was getting too lean to support all the hungry mouths at home and keep his landlady happy. “Writing is work,” he mumbled, but his resistance was already overcome. Money trumped dignity any day. “Alright. Salisbury it is.”

He could always cut half the character’s fights.


	15. Chapter 15

The minutes went by while the stalls and galleries of the Rose began to fill. The city was plastered with playbills announcing _The Pilgrim Woman_ at the Theatre, and Robert had sent out his minions to tear them down, but Will doubted that it mattered. The grapevine was already at work, and it was anyone’s guess which play would have the bigger audience. While _Woman_ was originally Italian, and therefore tantalisingly exotic, the Theatre didn’t have Edward Alleyne. It was an even match.

The trumpets sounded and there was an expectant hush in the auditorium. Augustine nudged Will with an encouraging grin. Will squared his shoulders, breathed in, and followed the other actors onto the stage. His heavy robe swept the worn floor, and he almost lost his balance as it caught on a splinter in the planks. Yanking at it as discreetly as he could, he managed to unsnag it and take his place at the back of the stage. Thousands of eyes gleamed in the afternoon sun. Thousands of ears awaited the first word.

Augustine drew a deep breath and began. “ _As by your high imperial majesty…_ ”

Will’s heart made a somersault. For the first time, his words were made public. The fragments that survived in Robert’s _King John_ didn’t count. This time, he had contributed whole speeches, whole strings of dialogue, and the actors’ voices would make them soar. London faces gawped up at them, mesmerised by the story from syllable one. A living, breathing audience that were drinking in Will’s words. Jack took over where Augustine’s lines ended, seamlessly weaving the fabric together, and so the scene was propelled forward by the steady, collective heartbeat of the company.

In minutes, it would be Will’s turn. Apprehension rose in him for every breath. He had done this before, and yet it felt like his first time. But he was prepared. He had no impossible fight scenes and no disturbing memories to jerk him out of the moment: no flaking residue on his thighs, no burning imprint on his lips.

Swallowing, he briefly closed his eyes. That’s history. Forget it. He needed to be alert for this. Needed to make an impression, even if he was just playing a random noble. This was his moment.

Now.

Walking to the front, he skirted the gallants in their expensive stage chairs. “ _Pride went before, ambition follows him_ ,” he declared in a voice which was both strong and brittle. “ _While these do labour for their own preferment, behoves it us to labour for the realm._ ”

It worked. The dead words on the page took flight and fluttered in all directions at once. Salisbury, having only existed in his mind, was now seducing the spectators to laughter, anger and excitement. Where nothing was before, he was now creating a whole world for their amusement.

He swept his gaze over the multitude. For a split second, he caught himself wondering if Kit was out there, but of course he wasn’t. He was off somewhere, perhaps abroad, spying and killing, drinking and brawling, shagging and smoking, shortening his life to the best of his ability. Missing the whole thing, the first insecure flapping of Will’s new-born wings.

“ _Join we together, for the public good, in what we can, to bridle and suppress the pride of Suffolk and the–_ ”

“Is this a speech or a Catholic sermon?” One of the gallants stretched, yawning demonstratively, in his chair. The audience laughed and Will tensed. The spell was broken, his soliloquy snapped in two. Holding his breath, he looked out over the grinning spectators. They weren’t looking at him anymore, but at the gallant. Will floundered. Should he go on? Ignore the interruption, the way he always had when Dick taunted him in the classroom?

No. Not anymore.

Dropping his character, he turned to the gallant and said, “Is your native language as unintelligible as Latin to you? I always knew that rich men’s children didn’t work very hard at school, but not even mastering the English tongue, that’s unheard of!”

The playhouse went deathly quiet. He had overstepped a boundary, he saw it in the darkening eyes of the gallant. So he could ruin the performance for everybody else, but couldn’t take his own medicine? Well, that ended here and now. Will might be crossing a line, but it was high time it was done. He had been annoyed before by heckling earls, sitting in their privileged seats on the stage. As part of the audience, Will hadn’t been in a position to challenge them, but now he was an actor, and this was the stage – the actors’ kingdom, not the nobles’.

“It’s your mangling of the English language which makes it unintelligible,” the gallant replied as soon as he recovered from the unexpected insult. “I’m not used to listening to peasants for long periods of time.” He looked at his friends, who grinned and slapped him on the back.

But Will ignored the jibe about his origins and seized on another word entirely. “Oh, it’s too _long_ for you?” He wiggled his little finger. One of the gallants laughed out loud and the first one glared angrily at him. “I’m sorry to make you feel bad. We’ll send it to the barber’s then, to be cut. Along with your beard.” He reached out a hand and pretended to pluck a few hairs from the gallant’s chin and throw them in his face.

“What in God’s name?” The gallant stood up violently.

Will immediately crossed himself. “Don’t take His name in vain. Because, as you know, vanity comes before a fall, and all your prayers will have been in vain.”

The gallant stared at him, sniggers spreading behind his back.

“Won’t you answer me, my lord, in the same vein?” Will asked innocently. “Oh, actually I see one, throbbing right there.” He pointed to the gallant’s head. “There, at your temple.”

The audience was beginning to catch on. The murmur of giggles rose steadily.

“Oh well, if this is the temple where you go to pray,” Will continued, “I don’t think God will hear you, because your pulse is beating so loudly! Then again, your whole body should be your temple, but looking at your identical twins here,” he made a gesture that encompassed the gallant’s similarly dressed friends, “your body is only a template, showing the fashion for other men.”

The nobles exchanged worried glances and shifted in their seats. Best not implicate them too much. He needed them to spearhead the laughter.

“So, my Lord Template, if I put you on a piece of leather, like this one,” Will pointed down at a weather-beaten old prostitute near the stage, “will such another leap out in nine months?”

Finally, the gallant found his tongue. “I’ve never been so insulted in my life!”

“Well,” Will hastened to reply, “Then your comfort is that life here is a mere play, the world a stage, and when you walk off this stage, you will be dead in the eyes of the world, and all your humiliations forgotten. A new template will surely take your place. Though not one of yours, my lord, I hope, because it’s fools like you who make the world full of ugly children.” The house was now roaring with laughter, and Will turned to them. “Therefore, ladies of the night, please don’t entertain this gentleman without proper precautions, okay?”

The gallant, realising that he couldn’t win this skirmish of wit, stormed off towards the steps leading down to the pit. But he had to brave a sea of hooting spectators to get out of the playhouse. Amid the jeers, he stomped down the steps, somehow misjudged the distance to the floor and lost his balance, stumbling straight into the arms of an apprentice in the first row. The apprentice looked up at Will, grinned, and then quickly stepped aside, letting the gallant fall to the ground.

“As I said, vanity goes before a fall!” Will shouted to be heard above the laughter. The gallant scrambled to his feet, brushed the rushes from his breeches and made for the door. When they had closed with a bang behind him, Will said, “You may not be aware of it, but Salisbury was actually a real joker.”

Warmed up and happy to giggle at anything, the audience rewarded him with applause. He waited until the auditorium was completely still again and then picked up his speech at precisely the point where he had been interrupted.

***

After the show, the cast gathered at the Boar’s Head to drink to another success. The excuse was thin, what with every other performance being a hit, but no one seemed to mind a bit of celebrating. For Will, however, no beer had ever tasted this sweet. Jack and Augustine patted him on the back and congratulated him on the outcome of his little intellectual skirmish.

“You don’t think I went too far?”

“That’s what the stage is for,” Augustine shrugged, raising his mug in a toast.

“Besides, w-what can he do?” Jack grinned. “It’s your w-word against his. And obviously you w-w-will win such an encounter any time.”

Will grimaced. “He only had two thousand odd witnesses…”

“Who w-were all on your side,” Jack pointed out.

Will smiled bashfully, his chest swelling at the thought that maybe, just maybe, he had what it took to be a player after all. A ruler of the masses like Edward Alleyne… “What if they ban the play, though?”

“Look,” Augustine said. “It’s done. It can’t be undone. And it’s only words. Air. Nothing is written down.”

“Unless there were pirates out there,” Jack cut in.

Augustine laughed. “So if we see this very dialogue satirised in another play within a couple of weeks, we’ll know that Will’s got it made.”

Jack gestured impatiently. “Anyway, everyone’s too caught up in this whole Spanish debacle to care about some petty lord’s feelings being hurt. Tomorrow w-we may all be dead.”

“Or wearing bigger ruffs…”

“And then w-we might as w-well be dead!”

They laughed at that, and the conversation moved on to happier things. The threat of Spain had loomed over their heads forever, and it booted no one to get worked up over it. It was in other people’s hands, and the day-to-day worries of getting dinner on the table was more pressing than international politics.

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Edward leaned over the back of Will’s chair, smiling in crooked inebriation and patting his shoulder in newfound camaraderie. “You’re now officially a playwright! So when are you going to write us a new one?”

Will laughed. “Jesus! This one’s only just finished.”

“Yeah, but now people have seen it. We may be able to squeeze one or two more performances out of it, but in a few weeks we’ll need something new.”

Will sighed, and his hand cramped at the mere thought of producing another play. It had been such a relief, not having to write the actual words, but he couldn’t use Dick again. That spring, beaten into opening, had dried up as soon as he had drunk from it. He didn’t want to tempt his old enemy further, or Dick might find it in him to retaliate.

So the problem remained. He was back where he started. His agonised scribbling took forever, and there was no one to ask for help. They all had their hands full with their own work. He once again thought of engaging one of the scribes, but they were all capricious, antisocial creatures who preferred to copy a written original to taking dictation.

Besides, he had no idea what to write about.

A ruckus at the door interrupted his thoughts. “We won!” A breathless boy burst into the tavern, waving his cap around like a madman. “We won! We beat the ruffs!”

“Oh, come off it,” someone scoffed.

“It’s true!” With a flamboyant flourish of the hand, the boy declared, “God blew, and they were scattered.”

It was so obviously a conned line that everybody laughed instead of being impressed. The boy looked disappointed, but soon enough the gossip began circulating among the guests, and when after a while another report with the same gist arrived, the excitement grew. They had actually won? Against Spain? It was inconceivable. They had all subconsciously prepared themselves for a new life as a Spanish slave nation, and now they were being told that the entire Armada was annihilated? It was like receiving news of the Devil’s final humbling. It wasn’t supposed to happen during their lifetime.

“Another round for everyone!” Jack shouted at the top of his lungs, and everyone in the tavern burst out cheering.

Everyone but Will. His mind was already at work on how to use this. Edward was more right than he knew: there would be an insatiable hunger for new plays now. Plays to do with war, with England as a victorious nation. He had to write something patriotic.

But a simple success story wasn’t very exciting. The interesting part was what victory did to people – what came after. England had won over Spain, but they hadn’t won them over. What were the feelings of the defeated, the prisoners of war, the raped women? He mustn’t only tap into the delirium of triumph, but also the desire for vengeance that must be brewing among the Spanish. He hadn’t seen Tom’s famous tragedy yet, but from what he had heard you came away a different person. The theme of revenge was an iron to strike now, before it had a chance to cool.

So who should his hero be? A triumphant soldier, back from the wars, bringing trouble back to… to Rome. Yes. It would have to be a Roman play. The implication that England was a new Rome would cater to the surge of hubris that must result from this unexpected triumph: the English nation was invincible, if only just for one day.

Waking from his reverie, he looked around the tavern at the celebrating people, most of whom he didn’t know. They probably didn’t even know each other, and still they embraced and laughed and cried together like old friends. Apprentices and whores and actors and lawyers: today they were all brothers. Only Will wasn’t a part of it. And why? He had as much right to rejoice as they did. So why didn’t he take part? Why was he mulling over a new story instead of experiencing this moment, which was stranger than any fiction?

“My Lady wants to meet you for dinner,” a voice said behind him. Will turned around and saw a nervous boy fidgeting there, hat in hand.

Robert also looked up. “Me, him or both?” he asked, obviously understanding the boy’s message better than Will did. The boy looked confused and his eyes flitted between the two of them.

“The… uh, the author, Sir. Of the play that was just at the Rose.”

“That would be me,” Robert said quickly, downed his beer in one swig and picked up his hat. Then he patted Will on the cheek. “Sorry old chap, but age takes precedence.” He leaned closer. “And I do believe _this_ woman is a real one.”

Will stiffened. Robert’s meaning was not to be mistaken. He knew about the Twelfth Night prank. Will averted his eyes as Robert left with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Aww…” A blue-clad woman with her assets on shameless display sauntered over to him and sat down on his lap. “Left all alone, are you?” She stroked his hair with a hand that felt more professional than sincere. “I’ll keep you company if you like.”

“No need,” Will muttered, but her wording struck a nerve: left all alone…

“You look like you could use a little comforting.” The working woman leaned closer and whispered, “I know what it’s like to play your part and then be discarded.”

He glanced up. Her sad eyes glistened like agate stones in the white cake of her makeup and for some reason he was reminded of Agnes. “I’m sorry…” he mouthed.

The woman shrugged and stood up again, rearranging her spectacular headpiece before continuing to a more willing customer. For a moment Will wondered if he should call her back. He did feel just a tad lonely, what with everyone toasting to the future and him unable to shake off the past. Perhaps her attentions might chase away those gloomy thoughts.

But the sight of her leading a new prey upstairs sobered Will up. An actress wasn’t capable of filling the void inside him. He needed something else, something real. He needed his family. He needed his old Stratford friends to see what a success he had become. He needed Master Jenkins to see his teachings bear fruit. He needed Dick to choke on his own self-righteousness, and Robert to be trampled by a horse.

But above all, he needed Kit.


	16. Chapter 16

“Are there any comic roles at all in this?” Kempe was leafing through the new play with an impatient flick of the wrist.

“Not many, I confess,” Will sighed. “I mean, it _is_ a tragedy…”

“Your point being that tragedy doesn’t afford any opportunities for laughs?” Grabbing his mug of dragon’s milk, Kempe finished it in one long gulp. “You have much to learn.”

“Come on, be friends,” Jack urged and motioned for the drawer to bring them refills. Alcohol, while often firing men up to fight, had the opposite effect on Kempe. It really was quite practical. “And W-Will, don’t make enemies w-with the clown. It’s much too easily done, and it brings w-with it problems you can’t imagine.”

Kempe laughed, pacified by the accurate analysis as much as by the beer. Will made an effort to smile. _This is good_ , he thought. _Keep busy, meet people who wind you up. Anything to banish these barbarous longings from your mind_.

“You know, I really do like it,” Kempe smoothed over his criticism. “You’ve learnt a lot since your first play. Gentlemen was really funny.” He paused to hold up his mug for the drawer to pour, licking his lips at the amber liquid glugging from the pitcher. “And I’m not just speaking out of self-interest. Comedy is what the people are there for. If you just spice this up a bit with some bawdy jokes and make room for a couple of jigs…”

“Before or after they cut her tongue out?” Will muttered. He should be happy now that he was writing for a real company, but he found himself longing for the street crew that Kit had put together for him. Many of them had managed to worm themselves into the Lord Strange’s Men, which had been their goal to begin with. But now that half of his activities were all official and legal, it wasn’t the same anymore. With the real companies, Will had to take trends into account.

“Also,” Richard cut in, “You should cut some of Lavinia’s lines. They’re very clever and lyrical, your heroines, but just… pare it down a bit.”

 _I’d have cut the whole thing if I had known Alexander would be playing her_ , Will thought crossly, even though Alexander had done nothing to hurt him except flirt with Kit – and that shouldn’t irk him at all. Let them have it off, why should he care? “Okay, I’ll chuck it all out.”

“No, no, they have their place,” Richard assured him. “But we can’t have females on stage for too long. The audience will get restless.”

Will stared at his friend.

“It’s Titus himself they want to see,” Richard explained. “Fights, great and thundering speeches… The rape is a good story, but don’t dwell on it. There’s a limit to people’s interest in a girl victim.”

Will made a face. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll change it. Now go on. It’s Lavinia’s line, yeah?”

“Yeah…” Alexander said slowly. “It’s just that… I don’t agree with Richard.”

Will’s hands curled into fists underneath the table. “What now?”

“There’s always room for more lines, and I need room to display as much as anyone. How else am I going to be discovered by a real company?”

“What, Strange’s isn’t good enough for you?”

“He means the _Admirables_ ,” Christopher said disdainfully. “Waiting for the great Edward Alleyne to handpick you, right?”

Alexander shrugged moodily and Will intervened. “Well, that’s not going to happen unless we get this show on the stage, so can we please just get this read-through over and done with so that we can all go home and do something important? Thank you…”

They continued reading in subdued voices, irritated looks darting this way and that across the table. While he listened, Will scribbled hurried additions and alterations in the margins where the verse halted or the actors tripped up.

“The Admiral’s is a more professional company,” Alexander whispered to Christopher during a lull in his scene.

Christopher snorted. “You just want to be a part of _Faustus_ and make Alleyne immortal with a kiss.”

Alexander stuck out his tongue at the younger boy. “They’ve already stopped playing that one, idiot. Marlowe’s writing some new Rose-buster as we speak.”

Will looked up sharply. There was news?

“It’s supposed to be a shocker, from what I hear,” Alexander went on. “ _Edward II_ , no less. And he’s not exactly censoring the original facts.”

Will didn’t realise that he had stopped breathing until Richard barked at Alexander and Christopher to get on with it. “Keep track of your own lines at least,” he scolded the youths. “Or are you too busy gossiping like old ladies?”

Will’s heart hammered at his ribs. Kit was preparing a play about Edward the _Second_? How did he imagine that to work? As subject matters went, that must surely be one of the easiest paths to the gallows. Did Kit really think he could portray the king truthfully, complete with his perverse infatuation for the Frenchman Gaveston, and not hang for it?

“ _Sweet lords, entreat her, hear me but a word…_ ”

“Jesus Christ!” Will lashed out. “You can’t sound like that! It’s as if you’re inviting them.”

Alexander looked up in surprise. “I’m screaming my head off, aren’t I?”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Will snarled. “You sound like you’re ravished every day and that you love it!”

Alexander frowned. “Is he supposed to talk to me like that? He’s not even a member of the company!”

“Calm down, Will,” Richard murmured. “It’s not the boy’s fault that… whatever it is that’s eating you.”

“Nothing’s eating me!” Will retorted with such vehemence that several of the actors laughed. Richard gave him a quizzical look. “Alright, sorry, I just… I haven’t slept very well lately, okay?”

“I thought you’d sleep better now that Kit’s away,” Richard said lightly.

Will’s heart almost stopped. Tell-tale prickles in his scalp announced the imminent rush of blood to his face. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

The slightest of blushes revealed that Richard meant exactly what Will feared, but he composed himself and said, “That you used to… work with him. Didn’t you? All night long sometimes.”

Will had no idea how to respond. His mouth hung open, waiting for words that didn’t come. The accusation was false, and yet it hit too near the mark. “Look, are we done, I mean, am I done?” he blurted, eager to be out of here. “I do have other things to attend to.”

Not waiting for a reply, he got up from the table and made for the door, for freedom. But outside in the street, Richard caught up. “Going to look for him?”

Will’s jaw locked. Why didn’t he just say yes? Richard had given him the chance to call it work. But his tongue just wouldn’t obey him. His stomach tightened. “Please don’t…” he began weakly.

“Don’t worry, I’m not telling you to choose.” Richard sighed. “You’ve already done that.”

“He’s been away for ages!” Will barked, and immediately regretted it.

“And now that he’s back he’ll be all over you again. Before long, you’ll have adopted all his bad habits. Soon there’ll be no discerning between you.”

Will stared at his friend. “Why do you hate him so much?”

Richard looked taken aback. “I don’t hate him. I just hate that… I don’t know… it’s just… he calls and you come running. Like a dog.”

“I can’t…” Will’s throat closed as he baulked at the frightening truth towering in his mind. “I can’t… not… be with him, Richard. I don’t… I can’t explain it.”

For a moment, Richard was dumbstruck. Then he looked away. “You don’t have to. I too have been in love.”

Will’s heart made a somersault. “Wha… Who…?”

“Forget it.” Richard sighed. “Don’t worry, I’ll, um… I’ll patch things up this end.”

Will stared at him. “Are you sure?” he whispered, and the question covered everything.

Richard must know it, and yet he nodded. “Yeah.”

Will hesitated. Then he murmured, “I don’t deserve you.”

“No, you don’t.” Richard punched him on the arm. “Now fuck off.”

He didn’t need pressing.

***

Kit’s lodgings were locked and there wasn’t a sound from inside. Cold with the memory of the last time this door had been left unanswered, Will banged on it long after it was obvious that no one was there.

“Looking for Master Marley?” the landlady asked, walking by on the stairs with a basketful of washing.

“You know where he is?”

“Oh, he’s gone to the country.”

There was a small pang in Will’s chest. Maybe it was a sign: he was supposed to forget the whole thing. God was helping him refrain from sin.

Well, fuck God.

“He has a friend, a fine gentleman…” the landlady mumbled pointedly.

“Who?”

The landlady held out her hand and he put a coin in it. “He’s in Kent.”

“Canterbury?”

“No, he’s at Thomas Walsingham’s estate. Scadbury, I think it’s called.”

Will stiffened. Walsingham? A relative of Sir Francis the spymaster? “You’re sure of this?”

“Of course. He’s his patron, you know.”

Will was startled. As patrons went, he’d have imagined that a man from the Walsingham clan would be a bit on the dangerous side. On the other hand, maybe that’s why Kit had chosen him: to be so close to danger that he was out of harm’s way.

No. That was ridiculous. You didn’t choose your patron at all. It was pure dumb luck even to get one.

“You want to know how to get there?” the landlady asked hopefully. Will forced a smile and felt in his purse for another bribe. After all, it was a good deed: saving this woman from poverty, at least for a day.

Five minutes later he vaulted onto a hired horse and shot off in a breakneck gallop towards Chislehurst. The villages hanging on to the hem of the big, sprawling thing called London flew by in a blur of dust while he wondered what the hell he was going to say to this Walsingham character when he arrived. Would Kit even acknowledge that he knew him?

But damn caution to Hell. It didn’t matter that this might be the most stupid thing Will had ever done. He had to see Kit again, even if he was consorting with a relative of the most dangerous man in England.

The magnificent house wasn’t hard to find. Slowing down by the gate, Will jumped off his horse. He was disgusting – sweaty with speed and nerves, and dusty from the road. And now that he was finally here, he had no idea what to do or where to go. The drawbridge was up, so he tied the horse to a post, took a left turn and walked along the moat, throwing uneasy glances at the looming façade on the other side. Did someone see him wander around the grounds? He imagined eyes in every window, spies in every tree.

But he was so close to reaching his goal. Only this stupid moat was in his way.

And suddenly he saw him: the distant but unmistakable figure of Kit. Will’s heart lurched in his chest. Sitting by the moat beside a reclining noble, Kit’s well-combed mane glinted like a halo. He was wearing a white shirt and light brown hose, nothing else. His posture was relaxed, his face turned to the sun.

Will’s indecision was over before it even registered. Tearing off his doublet, he crumpled it into a ball and threw it as far across the filthy water as he could. It didn’t even reach halfway – no matter. Inhaling deeply, banishing the memory of the Thames to the back of his mind, he flung himself into the moat. With a sickening smack, the slimy water engulfed him. Months’ worth of human excrements seeped into his ears and nose. Weeds tugged at his arms and legs as he attempted the gruesome swim. Unspeakably disgusting things floated by him in the water, caressed his cheeks and hands. The smell was overpowering – worse than the city ditch at Bishopsgate, worse than the sewers behind the Rose, worse than Newgate. The sickening, brownish liquid and the strain of keeping his head above the surface made him feel faint. He gulped for air and his mouth was almost flooded, but he soldiered on, his brain occupied by that single thought: to reach the opposite bank.

His hand struck solid earth. Finally! Gasping, Will closed his fingers on a clump of grass and pulled himself out of the moat. He retched, and his breakfast came up in a violent cascade of bile. For a long time he just lay there, breathing. He was exhausted, near tears from sheer repulsion.

But he was on the other side. The right side. Kit’s side.

Struggling to his feet, his legs felt weak and his boots squelchy with sodden refuse. The earth came away softly as he climbed the bank and finally scaled the grassy overhang. The sun warmed his back and he started walking towards the oblivious duo under the far-off tree. He had covered half the distance when Kit looked up and saw him. For an agonising moment his body language seemed to waver between horror and surprise. Then he broke into a broad grin. Will’s heart turned upside down in his chest. Kit stood up, pointed and said something to Walsingham, who shielded his eyes to see who the intruder was. Will’s pulse was beating ridiculously hard in his stomach. Walsingham gestured his approval and Kit started running.

And suddenly Will couldn’t move. He just stood there, frozen, watching Kit as he came flying across the lawn, his clean white shirt billowing in the wind like a sail. _I want to show this on the stage_ , he thought giddily. _I want this moment to be immortal, the way the breeze plays with his garments when he runs towards me, this moment of blissful reunion that almost makes time slow down, the pending impact of his body on mine_ …

His thoughts were shattered as Kit flew into his arms. It knocked the breath right out of him. The world grew small and intimate, gathering around their tight embrace and the smell of sunshine in Kit’s hair. His body was warm beneath the shirt, his arms so strong…

Then suddenly, Kit withdrew, and his eyes widened. “What the…?” He swept his gaze over Will’s bedraggled state.

“I’m sorry! I…” Will gestured towards the moat.

Kit burst out laughing and shook his head in disbelief. “You swam that stinking heap of garbage?”

“To reach you,” Will said, blushing furiously.

But at that moment, Walsingham appeared behind Kit, and they had to part. Straightening up, Will composed his features for his presumptive host.


	17. Chapter 17

“… _For here the stately azure palace stood_  
_Where great King Neptune and his train abode._  
_The god embraced him, called him ‘Ganymede’,_  
_Ensnaring the poor boy with wat’ry weeds…_ "

Will glowered at Kit where he sat in his chair, reading in a husky voice which was apparently designed to drive him crazy. Between them on a plush sofa, Walsingham lay like such another moat, keeping them apart.

Kit smiled back at Will, teeth glinting in the candlelight. Then he self-consciously adjusted his doublet, the purple velvet one that he wore mainly because the sumptuary laws reserved that particular colour and cloth for royalty. However, it also had the added advantage of showing off his well-shaped torso in a very favourable way, and Will was certain that he knew it.

Clearing his throat, Kit shot Will a look that made him ache.

“ _But when he knew it was not Ganymede,_  
_For under water he was almost dead,_  
_He heaved him up and bore the boy to shore…”_  


He hesitated. “No. I don’t know. _He heaved him up, intending to have kissed him, but…_ Give me a minute.”

Walsingham nodded slowly, gazing up at the ceiling, puffing at his pipe. “It’s good… it’s good…”

“Nah, you’re just saying that,” Kit grinned. “Now shut up and listen to this, you’re going to love it:

 _He watched his arms and, as they opened wide_  
_At every stroke, betwixt them would he slide_  
_And steal a kiss, and many another thing,_  
_Unto the utmost crest the boy to bring…”_

Will tore his eyes away from Kit and crossed his legs. His face was burning. Walsingham must see exactly what kind of ‘thing’ had happened between them. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. But the noble didn’t let on, he just continued smoking, his eyes lost in some dreamscape of his own devising.

Before dinner, Will had been allowed a deliciously scalding bath, clean clothes and perfume, and then the three of them had sat eating for hours. Will had endured it, hoping to finally get Kit alone, but for all his tolerance, Walsingham seemed intent on keeping them apart. So they had struggled their way through five courses, during which Kit had been struck with inspiration and scribbled a few lines of poetry on a sheet of borrowed paper. After the last plate had been cleared away, Walsingham had insisted on getting a taste of Kit’s work in progress. It had been worded like a friendly suggestion, but of course he trumped both his guests socially and there was no room for argument.

And now they had been sitting here for well-nigh three quarters of an hour while Kit alternately read and wrote, rearranging the lines and making small alterations.

“… _and there pry upon his breast, his thighs, and every limb…_ limb, limb, limb… Something with swim, I suppose…” Kit nibbled at the edge of his quill. “Blah blah, and then Leander made reply: ‘ _You are deceived, I am no woman, I’_.”

Walsingham laughed, but Will was aghast at the explicitness. Kit stopped reading and sat watching him for a while, maybe waiting for a comment. Will said nothing, just pretended not to notice. Kit tensed. Will smiled.

“What?” Kit exclaimed. “That bad?”

“No, it’s just your eagerness… that you really want to know what I think.”

“Of course I want to know what you think,” Kit said crossly. “You’re the only one who has the slightest idea what poetry is supposed to be. Oh, excepting Your Honour, of course.” Kit made an exaggerated flourish and Walsingham sat up laboriously.

“You couldn’t care less what I think. Now listen to what boy wonder over there has to say.”

They both turned their attention to Will, who felt his face grow even hotter. He tried to laugh off his embarrassment with a devil-may-care attitude which he copied unsuccessfully from Kit. “I’d rather keep you guessing, so you don’t get too cocky.”

Kit stared at him, apprehension now teetering on the brink of disappointment. Will regretted his flippant words and quickly added in a softer voice, “I mean, please… you have no idea how good you are?”

Kit hesitated for just a moment, noting the shift in tone. His eyes flitted towards Walsingham before he grinned, “Oh, I know I’m good. But normally I’d be throwing pearls for swine. Until you came along, I had no one who really understood.”

“Well…” Will cleared his throat. “I’m honoured.”

“You should be. Right, now let’s hear yours.”

“Mine?”

“ _Venus and Adonis._ Don’t tell me you haven’t been working?”

“Of course I’ve been working! But I… don’t have it with me.”

Both Kit and Walsingham burst out laughing. “Come on. Let’s hear it.”

Will sighed, irked by the presence of the noble. Reciting big speeches on a stage in front of two thousand Londoners was easier than having one shallow acquaintance listening in while you were baring your heart. But refusing was impossible. He closed his eyes and conjured his latest additions to the poem from memory.

“ _Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey,_  
_And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth;_  
_Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey,_  
_Paying what ransom the insulter willeth…”_

Walsingham chuckled groggily, but Kit was pointedly silent, willing him to go on. So he did. The scandalous words, inspired by the man across from him, tumbled out of him like a panicked waterfall. When he paused to breathe, he was momentarily distracted by the sound of Kit licking his lips.

“ _He now obeys, and now no more resisteth,_  
_While she takes all she can, not all she listeth.”_

____

____

There was a brief silence. Then Kit sighed. “It’s bloody genius. That’s what you should make into a play, not the two sissies of Verona.”

Will’s heart skipped a beat. Kit had seen it? He had been in London and seen it? Hiding his shock behind feigned anger, he asked, “What’s wrong with my _Gentlemen_?”

“They’re too… nice. The broads sound like overwrought nuns and the guys are even worse. Throw in a bit of raunchiness, people laugh at that.”

Will rolled his eyes. “You mean to tell me the king of filthy-mindedness missed the constant stream of innuendo in that very play?”

Kit ignored the remark. “Have Proteus and Valentine shag each other instead of their boring girlfriends!”

Walsingham giggled again. He must be really drunk. Will joined him tentatively, still having a hard time trusting the man, but also aware that being too guarded might seem suspicious.

“Boy, if you’d had the chance to go to university…” Kit murmured. Walsingham made a disgusted sound and Kit changed his mind. “On the other hand, maybe it’s for the best. University graduates are such a pain in the ass – and not in a good way! They always have to prove themselves. Quote the right people.”

“That’s how you gain recognition,” Walsingham slurred, out of his wits now with drink and smoking. “My uncle’s read that thing… um, whassisname, Machiavelli. And he says that…” He closed his eyes and frowned, trying to remember. “What was it… one who deceives will always find those who allow themselves to be deceived.”

“I know, it’s revolting,” Kit spat. “Repeat what some boring old stiff said a hundred years ago, and we’ll applaud you. Do something new and we’ll hang you!”

Will went momentarily cold at the thought of the gallows, but tried to it block out. As long as Walsingham could be trusted…

“So I suppose that’s what you need to do in order to convince those morons that you can do everything they can do, and better,” Kit continued. “Beat them at their own game. You have an amazing memory, Will. Use it. Let them see what you’re made of. Quote more than anyone else. Scatter countless classical allusions in your texts, out-Herod Herod. It will make the gallants think they’re intelligent and awe the groundlings in the pit.”

“Groundlings?” Will laughed. “What a perfect word for them…”

“Well, aren’t I the genius, making up euphemisms all by myself?”

In the brief silence that followed, there was a light sound from Walsingham. Heart suspended, Will turned to look at him. His chest was rising and falling slowly. He was snoring.

Will looked up and caught Kit’s eyes. A moment went by. Then another. The air seemed to tremble. Neither of them made a move. Will’s hands twitched in his lap. Kit looked over his shoulder, but there was no one, not even the dark and brooding servant who had hovered around their table like a raven all through their dinner.

They both stood up. Kit nodded at Will to go before him up the stairs, and Will set off on shaky legs, gaze fixed on the carpet, hoping not to run into anyone. He found his way back through the maze of corridors to the room he had been assigned. Entering, he closed the door without locking it and sat down to wait.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute, but by the end of it his heart was pounding so hard that he thought a rib would crack. And then the door opened again and Kit came in. He stopped to look at him, and Will just breathed.

What now?

Kit’s lips twitched. _Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey._ Will scrambled to his feet and Kit took the few steps that kept them apart, grabbed his doublet and pulled Will towards him. The familiar flame was once again kindling in his groin, snaking out through his veins until all his body was on fire. Resisting was futile. They were the Red Sea, held apart for a while by supernatural forces, but as soon as God lifted his hand from the scene, they crashed back together again. Blending, becoming one, just like they were supposed to be.

Kit smothered Will’s face with hot kisses, like a thousand tiny love mosquitoes dealing out their hungry punishments. Will’s hands burrowed into Kit’s silky hair, and somehow they made it to the bed. Fingers clawed at fabric, kissing and panting filled the room as they snagged on lacings and their noses bumped. Kit groped to find a way through the velvet and silk obstructing his access, but these were nobleman’s clothes and he obviously had little experience undressing a man of name. Swearing, he stood on his knees, drew his dagger, slid it beneath the points on Will’s borrowed codpiece and snapped them all in a single motion. Will laughed giddily and sat up to drag Kit down with him again, aflame with the knowledge of the pleasure he was about to revisit.

He had missed this. Oh, God how he had missed it. He didn’t care that it was a sin, that he was unfaithful or that their impossible affair was doomed from the start. This was the person he must be with, no matter that he himself was married or that according to the law of the land, sodomy was actually on a par with high treason.

He felt Kit’s cock spring free from his breeches and brush his thigh, and the light touch sent his mind spiralling. On instinct, he pulled his legs up to give access. Kit captured his mouth with his, and while they kissed, his cock nuzzled between Will’s legs. Steel encased in velvet, it pushed into him like a living thing, and Will broke away from the kiss to howl into the canopy. He was pierced. He was stabbed. Kit sliced into him, body and soul, sending ripples of honey through muscles that Will had forgotten he possessed. He wrapped his legs around Kit’s waist, and the motion opened him up so much that could practically feel Kit push all the way up to his heart.

He lost himself. He was no longer one creature. _So, these two bodies in a firm embrace no more are twain, but with a two-fold form nor man nor woman may be called, though both in seeming they are neither one of twain._ Kit’s movements inside him echoed the beating of his own heart.

“Wih… Will…” Kit panted out, and then he threw his head back and his entire body went rigid as he buried himself to the root. For a moment, he looked desperate, lost, in the grip of something stronger than himself.

Then his shoulders fell, and he gripped Will’s hips to change the angle, pounding him to the edge of his own abyss with a cock that was still rock hard. Unravelling quickly, Will failed to stifle the cries that were rammed out of him for every thrust. When the fountain rose from deep within his bones, it went on and on and on, longer than he could bear, until he was sobbing and praying to a vengeful God to let him survive this ordeal to be taken again tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow.

When it was over, Kit collapsed on top of him and Will sank into the mattress, gulping on air, trying to find himself among the waves of after-pleasure that washed through his body like swarms of summer bumblebees.


	18. Chapter 18

Lying on the damp sheets, they gradually cooled down. When Will finally breathed a deep sigh of contentment, Kit hit him on the arm – not hard, but not very lightly either. “You tosser,” he muttered.

“What?”

But Kit just smiled and shook his head.

“So… do you think he knows?” Will asked.

“Who, Walsingham?” Kit reached for his pipe and lit it. “Probably.” He inhaled and passed the pipe to Will. “But aristocrats can do whatever they like.”

“Oh yes, I forgot!” Will snorted. “You’re Lord Cobbler and I’m Sir Glover of Warwickshire Castle.”

“We’re on Walsingham’s estate. There’ll be no spies here except… well, him.”

Will sucked at the pipe. The smoke burned in his lungs and sent warm currents through his body, helping him relax. “And you trust this man?”

Kit yawned, ostensibly uninterested in the subject. Then he rolled over on his stomach and reached for his papers. “As much as I trust any man. Or woman, for that matter.”

Will smiled. “Oh, and this from your supreme experience of relations with the opposite sex?”

“I’ve been a wife hundreds of times,” Kit grinned as he unscrewed the lid on his ink bottle. “Just not with you.”

There was a twist of irrational jealousy in Will’s stomach, and before he could stop himself, he blurted, “Would you like to be?”

There was the tiniest of silences before Kit replied in a light tone, “I thought you were content with the one.”

“I only wear her for special occasions,” Will teased. “I need something for everyday use as well.”

“Everyday use?” Kit scoffed. “I’ll show you everyday use.”

“No. I’ll show _you_.”

“Hah! Dream on. I am Neptune, you are Leander, and don’t you forget it. Got to keep the hierarchy intact, or the whole Chain of Being will unravel.” He dipped his quill and started writing where he had left off during dinner, his whole body marking that the conversation should end there.

It made Will envious just to see him scribble away so quickly, but he held his tongue to avoid upsetthing his friend now that he was in the clutches of his muse. Instead he took the opportunity to watch him, to drink in his youthful body which lay on shameless display amid the crumpled sheets, gorgeously bathed in candlelight. It occurred to Will that the sight should mean nothing to him. Kit was a man, just like him. They looked the same. They were even of a height – and of a length. And yet watching Kit was like looking at a completely different species. A beautiful, exotic species, like a golden lion.

“So how are you planning to get that ‘lusty god’ hanky panky past the Privy Council?” Will asked after a while.

Kit laughed without looking up from his writing. “I’m not. It’s for your ears only.”

“And Walsingham’s.”

“Well…” Kit seemed unwilling to speak of his patron at all. Had they ever…? Will decided not to pursue that line of thought. Glancing at Kit’s half-filled sheet of poetry, he urged instead, “Let’s hear what you’ve written.” To his surprise, Kit mumbled something indistinct in reply and an unaccustomed blush spread on his face. Will’s heart groaned at the sight, but he didn’t dare say anything – because what was there to say? ‘You’re beautiful’? That would just be ridiculous. “Come on, I want to hear it,” he insisted instead. Ears burning, Kit picked up the sheet he had been writing on and handed it to Will, motioning at him to read it for himself. “Alright. I have a better voice than you anyway.” Will cleared his throat exaggeratedly.

“ _His body was as straight as Circe’s wand,_  
_Jove might have sipped out nectar from his hand_  
_Even as delicious meat is to the taste,_  
_So was his neck in touching…_ ”

He paused, breath caught in his throat. Kit was watching him earnestly, and not only to gauge his reaction. Hearing an echo of his own thoughts just now – _you’re beautiful_ – he hurriedly gave Kit back the sheet. Without a word, Kit picked up his quill again and continued writing.

Then he gave a little chuckle. “By the way,” he said, looking up. “Have you read what Robert had to say about you in his latest pamphlet?”

Will looked up. “About me?”

“Yeah, you.” Kit grabbed a pillow and hit him over the head with it. “Unless you’ve got a twin brother who does all your genius writing for you.”

Will smiled to be so caught in the charmed circle of Kit’s attention.

“Anyway, he’s published this rant where he complains about uneducated writers – ring a bell? Among others, there’s this unnamed ‘country author’ who used to be a teacher.”

Will rolled his eyes. “I was never a teacher.”

“So he’s got it all wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“What else does he have to say of me?”

“He thinks you stretch your similes…”

“Pff.”

“And that your heroines are boring.”

Will sat up. “He never!”

Kit chuckled. “No, but he thinks you steal stuff from real authors and then pass it off as your own.”

Will banged his fist on the mattress. “It’s called intertextuality!”

Kit glanced up. “Mm, like the sound of that…”

“Text, Kit, text. Like this: Kit is my shepherd, I shall not want.”

“Really, I had no idea,” Kit sniggered. “Tell me more, grammar schoolboy.”

Will slapped Kit’s ass, but he just giggled. Joining in, Will continued paraphrasing. “He makes me lie down in the green, green grass of Virginia…”

“What a perfect gentleman this person must be,” Kit smiled. “And let me guess, he leads me to excellent drinking establishments…” He put his quill on the floor and sidled closer to Will, his hands now free to slide over his skin again. “And he restores my spirit… so that I can have another go.”

“Mm…” Will grinned. “And even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Bess…”

“Ah, naughty boy!”

“I fear no evil.” Will held Kit at arm’s length, suddenly serious. “Because you are with me.” There was a brief silence, then they both burst out laughing. “Your rod and your staff, they comfort me!” Will hooted.

“Let alone your spear,” Kit added.

“No no, don’t let it alone, please…”

Kit slipped his hand lower down. “Oh, puppy, I won’t. Will you let me Shake it?”

Will giggled. “Jesus, you’re worse than I am…”

Kit kissed him until he went weak and then abruptly resumed his scribbling, frowning in a perfect imitation of seriousness. Will watched him with an unruly smile tugging at his lips, when suddenly, there was a hard knock on the door. They both sat up and looked at each other. “Hello in there,” a voice called. It wasn’t Walsingham’s, but they both recognised it.

“Shit, shit, shit…” Will bounded from the bed and made for the curtains, but Kit caught his arm.

“This is your room. _I_ have to hide.” He gathered as many of their discarded garments as he could and tiptoed across the floor to a wardrobe. Once again there was a knock, and this one was harder.

“Answer, in the name of Her Majesty!”

There was a rattle in the lock. Will sought Kit’s eyes, but he had already closed the door to the wardrobe. Breathing in shallow gasps, Will drew the sheets up to his chin just as the door burst open and Poley barged in. At the sight of Will, he stopped short. For a moment, it looked as if he was about to laugh. But then his sharp senses picked up some minute sign of Kit’s presence, and his amused expression clouded over. He walked to the wardrobe and yanked the doors open. Will’s heart froze in his chest. This wasn’t happening. There Kit stood, naked and sweaty with his hair in a mess, everything about him screaming recent sex, and here was one of the most dangerous men in England.

Poley’s face, however, betrayed very little as he registered the indecent inhabitant of the closet. The muscles around his mouth just tensed slightly and he whispered something that sounded vaguely like ‘death wish’.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Kit muttered as he started pulling on his hose.

“Bringing Walsingham the news of his uncle’s death.”

Kit looked up. “What? Old Walsingham is…?”

“… no more. Thus leaving Junior this house and a few other perks. But to show due gratitude he has to make an appearance in the city. You understand.” Poley glanced at the clothes on the floor. There was a quiver of disgust on his face as he took in Will’s appearance: the stubble, the long hair… “And you’ll have to leave.”

“Can’t we stay the night?” Kit groaned. “I’m a household pet.”

“Why do you think I came here to get you?” Poley shot back, his face a stern mask. “You should be glad that I volunteered, otherwise his nosy servant would have turned up instead.”

Kit and Poley shared a look which Will didn’t understand. “But Frizer will be going with him to the city, won’t he?” Kit asked in a low voice.

“Yes, but…”

“So this house will be the safest one in the whole of England.” Kit was smiling, but his face bore signs of emotions Will didn’t entirely understand.

Poley sighed. “I don’t know…”

“Tell him that his invaluable input has me in the throes of poetic passion. I can’t move from my room. I need to finish _Hero and Leander_.”

Poley was shaking his head, but it was a resigned gesture. “You should have a care,” he muttered. “When the Crown no longer has a use for you, I won’t–”

“Then it’ll never happen,” Kit smiled. “Now please leave me and my eminent scribe alone, will you?”

Will choked down a snort at the ludicrous lie, but Poley shrugged and made for the door. When it closed behind him, Will let out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding. “Christ…” He buried his face in the covers and tried to stop trembling.

He felt Kit’s warm hand on his back. “Don’t worry. Poley’s a good liar.”

Will laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, I know that. He was probably hiding his plans to have us hanged even now, pretending to look out for you.”

Kit grimaced, but said nothing to that. He just sat down on the bed beside Will, and for a long while, neither of them spoke. Will’s heart slowed down, and he started berating himself for being so skittish. Kit didn’t let things get to him like that. Why couldn’t he be more like Kit?

“The valley of the shadow of Bess…” Kit finally murmured. “That’s clever, actually.”

“Why thank you, Master Marlowe.” Will sighed and rolled onto his back to begin sucking at the pipe again. He could use some clouding of the mind right now.

“No, I mean it. It encapsulates our times.”

Will made a face. “It encapsulates every time. It just used to be the shadow of Mary, or of Henry. I suppose it doesn’t really matter who sits on the throne, life is the same for us ‘groundlings’.”

Kit shrugged. “I’d prefer James.”

“Of Scotland?”

“Mm.”

“Why?”

“Maybe he wouldn’t hang the likes of us.”

Silence descended on the bed as Kit returned to his writing and Will lost himself in contemplation. At length, he said, “He would be a good character for a play.”

Kit frowned at the paper. “Hm?”

“James. Or better yet, Francis Drake. Maybe I should have made the play about him instead of–”

“Don’t.” Kit’s eyes were dark and serious.

“What?”

“Never use living people for your plays.”

“Oh… I wasn’t really planning to.”

Kit searched his face. “I’m just telling you. Nick all his characteristics, but give them to some dead fellow. Talbot. Henry VII. Anyone. Ghosts can’t hurt you. Drake can fall from grace any day, and then you don’t want your idolatrous portrayal of him on the national stage.”

Will gazed at Kit, and his chest pulsed. Confronting Poley, he had been calm and collected, but at the thought of Will coming in harm’s way, he was visibly worried. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

Kit breathed out. “It is kind of tempting, though,” he grinned. “First he brings us tobacco and then he helps bring down the Armada. I’m partial to the guy, I tell you.”

Will chuckled. “Yes…” He attempted a grand gesture which ended up a little wobbly. “Our miserable winter is turned to glorious summer by that son of a bitch.”

Kit laughed. “Write it down.”

“No.”

Kit made a face and continued scribbling. Will sighed, thinking back to the untenable situation in the capital. The Lord Strange’s Men and the Admiral’s had joined forces because of venue trouble, but the weak alliance was breaking down before it even began. “It’s a shame we have no great leader to bring peace between our clashing armies. Just grumpy old men and ambitious young upstarts digging in the dirt for scraps.”

“Clashing armies?” Kit mumbled, deep in thought.

“Us writers being one,” Will nodded to himself. “But we’re one man armies against hordes of players who just don’t understand.”

Kit snorted. “Tell me about it.”

Will felt his pulse quicken at the thought of his constant little skirmishes with the established company actors. “They all want to shine,” he complained. “Kempe wants jigs, Richard wants long speeches and Augustine wants fights. But what they don’t understand is that there’s also… I don’t know.”

“Dramaturgy,” Kit filled in without looking up from his text.

“Yes! And they should know that. They perform plays every single day of the week – almost – and yet they can’t detect a halting structure if it trips them up.”

Kit laid down his quill. “Of course they can. They just don’t care. And do you know why? Because the audience doesn’t care. They want different things, too. Kempe has his following, as we are all painfully aware. Augustine’s fans are there for the fights. And the gallants yearn for Richard to drone on and on about his inner turmoil.”

Will smiled, but it was a rueful, bitter smile. The situation might look amusing from a distance, but when you had to live with it every day, it soon became supremely vexing. “Richard says he needs more lines to be able to explore the mind-set of the hero.”

Kit pursed his lips. “Soliloquising is masturbation.”

Will laughed. “And that’s not all,” he said, meaning to go on, to explain himself, but Kit already knew.

“Because we also have to take the Queen into account.”

Will looked at him in wonder. “Exactly,” he breathed, despite everything still able to be surprised by their similarity of thought.

“And not to affront her or one of her shifting favourites is the biggest job of all. Without her, we don’t even have a job.”

“And the actors know this too!” Will burst out. “They spend half their time with the Master of the Revels, for God’s sake.”

“Well… it’s our job to please everyone.”

“It’s fucked up.”

“So leave.”

“Or don’t play along, right? Like you.”

Kit grimaced. “I’d trade places with you any day. You have the ability to keep calm, say nothing and chip away at the stone in secret.”

“And I wish I had the guts to say what I think, like you,” Will countered. “Or even to know what I think myself…”

Kit sighed and looked towards the window, at the blackness beyond. The candle on the windowsill flickered in the draught, and so did its reflection. “Don’t try too hard. Just look at the world. Mirror what you see. The people who look for code will find code. Those who like dirty jokes will see obscene innuendo in every other line – whatever you write.”

“Mirror what I see?” Will chuckled groggily. “So I should tell the story of a bunch of bumbling, vain actors who put on censored plays?” He was beginning to feel a bit woozy and considered putting away the pipe, but didn’t seem to have the energy. The feeling was vaguely reminiscent of a childhood fever: how his thoughts had run amok in his seething brain, making strange connections… “But that would be like putting up two mirrors opposite each other, so the image is doubled to infinity.” He inhaled more smoke and let it burn in his lungs for a few moments before letting it out in a long sigh. “Courting an amorous looking-glass… like Narcissus at the pool…”

Kit looked up. “Write it down.”

“Nah.”

Kit made an exasperated noise. “Even your head will become full one of these days. It would be a shame to waste such beautiful words.”

“A waste to shame such worldly beauties…” Will mumbled automatically. Then he sighed. “Well then, why don’t you do it?”

Kit stared at him for a few moments. “Okay, I will.” He picked up a new piece of paper and charged his quill with fresh ink. “What was it, _the miserable winter…_?”

Will groaned. “Now I’ll have to be serious. That’s precisely the reason why I didn’t want to write it down. I was just doodling. Mentally.”

Kit shook his head. “You were being lazy and you know it. Now come on. Winter. The winter of what?”

“ _Our discontent_ ,” Will muttered, not at all sure that it even made sense. “ _Made glorious summer by…_ ” He chuckled and sucked at the pipe. “Not son of a bitch.” He frowned. “Who was that guy… you know, who saved the day after Harry’s fuck-up in France?”

“You mean Edward?”

“Yeah, him. Lancaster or York?”

Kit gave him a mock-stern look. “Really, young Shaksper, do I have to bring out my rod?”

“Alright, alright, let me guess… York?”

“Of course he was a York, are you jerking me around? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’re supposed to be related to the guy’s right hand man. Go on, _glorious summer…_?”

“Well, _by this sun of York_ then, I suppose.”

“You suppose,” Kit muttered, jotting down the words. “And who’s doing the talking?”

“Guess,” Will said sweetly.

“Richard the Turd?”

“Correct.”

“That’s perfect.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean it,” Kit said, grinning in sudden excitement. “If you use him, if you make Richard the tragic anti-hero brought down by Elizabeth’s illustrious forefather, you can say anything. On the surface, you’ll be praising those in power, and using that as camouflage you can criticise the present system without the Master of the Revels ever being the wiser!”

“Yes.” Will chuckled, suddenly very pleased with himself and the great idea he had had almost all on his own.

“Okay, now go on,” Kit urged.

Will pursed his lips, trying for smoke rings but failing miserably. Bursts of white fog drifted up towards the ceiling and dispersed. “ _And all the clouds that lour’d on our house… in the vast heavens –_ no. _In the bosom of our Lord…_ No, strike that out. _In the deep bosom of the ocean buried._ ”

Kit paused. “Ocean? Where do you get ocean?”

“Just write.”

“Sometimes I agree with Robert, you know…”

“Well, who asked you? Clouds rain, and the rain falls into the ocean. Simple as that.”

Kit grinned at the paper. “ _O soul, be changed into little water-drops, and fall into the Ocean, ne’er to be found…_ ”

Will frowned at the words. Kit was quoting his own _Faustus_ , and the comparison was not to Will’s advantage. But forcing his mind off the pretty image of a soul resolving itself into a dew, he strove to continue his own speech. “ _Now are our brows bound with_ , um, _with victorious wreaths… our bruised arms hung in our…_ no, _our bruised…_ Fuck it. Come here.”

“No, you have to work. You can’t live forever on the ‘victorious wreaths’ of your Henries.”

“I know, I know…” Will buried his face in a pillow, and then flung it away in sudden anger. “But I need a new fucking hand!”

“There’s nothing wrong with your hand.”

Their eyes met briefly, knowingly. Will smothered a smile. Nothing more needed to be said on that subject. “ _Our bruised arms hung up forever_.”

“ _For monuments_ ,” Kit corrected him.

Will was on the verge of objecting, but realised that it did sound better, and it fitted the verse like a glove. “Alright.”

Kit wrote. Then he grinned and sighed.

“What?”

“I don’t know, it’s just… this is nice.”

Will smiled. “It kind of is, yeah…”

“You really hate writing, don’t you? The actual wielding of the quill, I mean.”

“Oh God, yes!”

Kit shook his head in amazement. “For me it’s a lifeline. Something to occupy my hands so they don’t do something else… You know, I could continue doing this. Helping out, as it were. If you want me to.”

Almost choking, Will sat up. He gazed at Kit for full half a minute, trying to ascertain that he wasn’t joking. Satisfied that Kit was in earnest, he grinned broadly. They had just found the cover they needed to be together, even after returning to London. His chest expanding to breaking point at the thought, he breathed, “That would be fucking brilliant.”


	19. Chorus: 1616

Richard and Jack came rushing into the room. “W-what? W-what’s the matter?” Blinking in confusion, Will fumbled at his throat, shaky fingers pulling at his nightshirt. It was strangling him, pulling tight! He felt warm hands hold him up, tear at the offending fabric. But he still couldn’t breathe. Richard was crying now, shaking him, showering him with desperate invectives. Swallowing again and again, Will finally found purchase in his throat, and with a raucous gasp that felt like his first breath after falling into the Thames, his lungs filled. Staring up at his frightened friends, he fumbled for words to reassure them, but his mind was torn apart.

Hadn’t he been sitting here, talking with Richard? When had he left the room?

Will flitted his eyes towards Jack, and then to Dick. Oh yes. Dick and his papers. _For my puppy_. The finished _Hero and Leander_.

Chest constricting again, he bent over the pile in his lap.

“Keep calm,” Richard told him soothingly, imploringly. “Just concentrate on breathing, okay?”

The air shuddered in and out of him. It took more energy to keep going than to just stop and sink into the mattress. Just a few hours ago, he’d been fine, drinking and carousing at Atwood’s with his friends from the city, catching up and feeling more alive than he had in years. And now his body was breaking down, fighting a losing battle with his soul. It had caught a whiff of freedom. A message from the other side. The realisation made his head swirl, and his ears rush.

“But you don’t understand,” someone kept repeating in the outside world. “It’s from him!”

The voice should be familiar to him, but the sound of it grated against his resolve, and he ordered Richard to take whoever it was away.

“Willie! It’s from him!”

There was a squeak from the door. A tall figure loomed over him, and a new voice mingled with the other one, that was still yelling something from the stairs outside. “Don’t worry, Master Shakespeare. I won’t hurt you.”

 _Hurt me?_ He gazed up at the hazy silhouette, vaguely aware that it must be Doctor Hall. But the voice didn’t sound like his. It was familiar, but strange. As if Will had once known it, but it had changed almost beyond recognition. Through fever-blurred eyes, he could make out what looked like a moving skeleton in a dark cowl – the doctor’s mask, shielding his real face. Will tried to ask something, but only a croaking sound passed his lips. A sour smell emanated from the folds of flowing robes as the doctor gently squeezed his throat, his armpits, his groin. There was a hollow, humming sound from behind the motionless face.

“Is it…?” Richard’s voice was hoarse.

The hooded head shook from side to side. “His armpits aren’t swollen.”

Richard let out a shuddering breath.

“But don’t be too relieved. He’s still in danger.” The birdman’s beak hovered inches from Will’s skin, sniffing him like a predator. “He has an excess of blood. I’ll need to leech him.”

He opened his bag and produced a glass container full of thin, black, slug-like creatures squirming lazily in a clear liquid. He stuck a gloved hand inside and picked up one of the writhing, slithering little things. It reminded Will of starlings pulling worms out of the ground after a big rainfall, only in reality he was the worm, cowering in the shadow of the huge bird of prey.

“Please roll up your sleeve.”

Will was shaking. He had no control over his limbs. Were they really going to let this stranger use his black demons to bleed him dry without batting an eyelid? They believed in everything that creature said, even though they couldn’t see his face? He could be lying through his teeth behind that white beak, and no one was the wiser. One look at the cowl and his words were presumed to be holy writ. But anyone could dress up in a doctor’s robes.

“He’s only here to make you better,” Richard pleaded. “Better to just get it over with, isn’t it?”

Will bit down on a rising lump in his throat. He must be brave for them, must don a mask just like the birdman’s, to fool his dearest friends. His arms were heavy when he held them out. Someone pulled at the sleeves of his nightshirt and the delicate skin was revealed. Cool air licked at him and a frisson spread all over his body. The birdman leaned forward, his impassive face staring emptily while he placed the leeches on Will’s arm. There was a sharp tickle as they bit down and Will drew a hissing breath.

“Good man.”

The birdman gave his cheek a brief caress – why? – and Will’s eyes fell shut. It was almost pleasant, the way all excess consciousness was drained out of him. He could fall asleep with the needy leeches still on him, feeding on his life force, Will reeling from the blow, caught in a freefalling feeling…

“Will?”

_Leaking tinctures, treacherous teachers giving lectures on textures, anxious fractures on bachelors’ breeches…_

“He looks pale. Is it supposed to…?”

There was a slap on his cheek and he tried to open his eyes, but found that he couldn’t. It didn’t matter. He was being pulled under by something stronger than him, a flood of blood, _a maudlin mood that fled his bedded body…_

“What did you do to him?”

Something was happening in the outside world. There was bustling, someone was forced from the room. He could still hear him protest, as wildly as Dick had done, and he frowned briefly at the connection. But then his attention was snagged by the way his arms smarted from something, like pinches – why were they pinching him? Why didn’t they just leave him alone? He tried to lift an arm to fend off the insistent demons with their tiny spears, cutting him, hurting him. But in the comfortable darkness the pinches turned to caresses: the tranquillity of oblivion. No grief, no weariness, no memories.

His twenty-three years were up. It was time to let go.


	20. 1592

“So I’ve got your star vehicle.”

Richard looked up, pleasant surprise fading into annoyance as he looked past Will and saw his companion. “Oh. Hi Kit…” He turned his back to them, ignoring the pages that Will held out.

“Come on, don’t be childish,” Will snapped, weeks of nightly labour in order to get the thing done making him short of temper.

Kit chuckled. “If he doesn’t want it you can just give it to the Strange-Admiral’s instead.” He sat down on the roof beside Richard, making him flinch in irritation. “So… time for the weekly whipping, eh?” He motioned towards the square below, where people were just now gathering for the pending show. Richard didn’t reply, and Will was left standing alone and bewildered behind them, holding the finished and scribe-copied play like a new-born baby in his arms. He hadn’t meant to stay for the whipping, only to hand over the precious pages and then go back to his lodgings to get some shut-eye for once. But now that Kit had sat down and Richard refused the script, his sleep-deprived brain stopped functioning and he had no idea what to do.

Kit turned to look at him and patted the tiles beside him. “Come on, might as well watch the bloody spectacle now that we’re here, right?” 

Will made to obey, but hesitated. Should he sit on Richard’s side instead? He could feel both of them silently urging him to choose in their favour. With a weary grimace, he settled for a place behind them – neutral ground, no man’s land, but tracing a tense triangle.

A brooding silence descended on the rooftop. In minutes, the Bridewell whores due for punishment were led out and stripped to the waist, drawing cheers from several spectators. Men with lashes set to attacking the bound women until red streaks appeared on their backs. To the dismay of the bloodthirsty crowd, the victims were doing quite a good job of not screaming. One man even hollered at them to squeal a little, to give him his time’s worth.

Relenting at last – perhaps softened by the carnival of blood down there – Richard sighed and reached a hand over his shoulder. After a moment’s hesitation, no longer than a heartbeat, Will handed the pages to him. He wanted to tell his friend to handle them with care, but that would just be stupid. Plays were not exactly a commodity. Still, this one felt special. As if it were indeed a child – his and Kit’s.

Richard looked at the title and snorted. “You want me to play a villain?”

Will was needled. “So?”

“Well, with my scarred mug nothing remains but villains, I suppose…”

“Just read it.”

But Richard pursed his lips and dropped the pages on the tiles. They started sliding and almost scattered in a sudden gust of wind, but for Kit’s timely reaction. Clutching at them expertly, he almost lost his balance. Will scrambled to his knees to steady him. Kit sat back, safe again. He almost leaned his head on Will’s shoulder, but refrained at the last moment. Richard watched the minuscule drama without commenting. Then he shook his head and felt his belt for his pouch of tobacco. “Want a smoke then, Master Marlowe?”

Will released a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. So Richard was willing to try. That was a start. But Kit just threw a cursory glance at the offered pipe. “No thanks.”

Richard looked hurt, but glossed it over with a condescending smile. “Yes, now that every Tom, Dick and Harry has become a tobacconist, the real connoisseurs only smoke on special occasions – like the Lord’s Sabbath.”

“Actually,” Kit snarled, “Real tobacco has become very hard to come by. The crap that makes it through the customs nowadays is hardly worth the box it’s transported in.”

Richard cocked an eyebrow at Will. “Translation: Belgian tobacco isn’t expensive enough for him.”

“What utter nonsense! American tobacco just tastes better, and that’s worth paying an extra shilling for.”

Richard gave up and offered Will the pipe instead. Will glanced at it, ridiculously torn. _It’s just a pipe_ , he told himself. But when he declined, Richard’s jaw set. So it wasn’t just a pipe. It was a test of loyalty.

After a few minutes of watching the torture, Richard finally picked up the play. Will watched in silence as he perused the first few words. “No prologue, then?”

“No.”

“No one talking about the main man before he goes on stage?”

“Obviously not.”

Richard’s eyes flitted towards Kit, as if silently accusing him for this strange breach of custom. Will coloured. He couldn’t, in truth, hold that he had written the play on his own. In fact he hadn’t actually written a single word, just paced his room and rambled on while Kit scribbled furiously by the window, trying to keep up with Will’s wanderings. Will had told him again and again that he must stop if he got fed up, if he wanted to write something of his own, but Kit had just grunted impatiently and waited for the next line. The play had come into being like a dream, without a struggle. It made Will vaguely uncomfortable. The Shrew had been born in a dragged-out spectacle of ink, sweat and tears, and having a play come to him like this – effortlessly – seemed wrong somehow. As if it weren’t for real.

“It hasn’t got many characters in it,” Richard muttered.

“They’re the normal amount.”

“But _Henry_ …”

“… was written for the combined companies. This isn’t.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve been talking about joining the Pembroke’s.”

Richard grimaced. “Yeah, but they’re a bunch of–”

“Losers, I know. But not for long. Some of my street men are joining, to fill up empty spaces left by Red Fairy overdoses. So can you.”

“But–”

“Either you stay with the Strange-Admiral’s and have Edward outshine you forever, or you jump ship while you can. Take my play with you. They’ll welcome you with open arms.”

Richard looked suddenly amused. “You do have a high opinion of yourself.”

“He’s a bloody genius and you know it,” Kit muttered.

Richard’s mouth twitched. “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

“So why aren’t you thanking him?”

Richard looked down and his jaw muscles moved. _Because you’re here, Kit_ , Will sighed inwardly. Down in the square, the whipping was done and the whores were being untied. Richard stood up.

“Don’t leave on my account,” Kit grimaced in a parody of courtesy. Richard said nothing, just dropped to the ground behind them and walked away.

Will watched the whores be led back into the correction facility, their backs streaked with red, and found himself wondering who had bought their services and why they weren’t being punished the same way. An image of highborn gentlemen surfaced in his mind, their velvet doublets peeled away to give the lash access. Their tender skin breaking out in welts to atone for past pleasures. “Well… that’ll teach them,” he said.

Kit snorted softly. “They’ll soon be on their backs again. I wonder that they don’t make the lesson permanent. Actually destroy the tools of their trade, you know?”

Will clenched his teeth. “Like in _Edward_?”

Kit raised his eyebrows and then grinned. “So you don’t like the direction my play is taking.”

Will looked away. Swallowed. He didn’t know what to say. It would probably be a hit. But it was too audacious, too true and, judging from the sketches he’d seen at Kit’s lodgings, ultimately too horrendous. What would happen to its author when it was performed? But if he voiced his fears, he knew what Kit would reply: that vice was duly punished at the end, and so the slate was wiped clean of whatever came before. Will shivered to remember the final scenes. Edward the fallen king, thrown into a dank prison-hole, the receptacle for all the castle’s waste, awaiting his ghastly demise. “Is that really your view of… what we do?”

Kit chuckled affectionately. “My view? It’s what really happened. You’ve read Holinshed.”

“Yes, but to show it on the stage…”

“Far worse is shown at the gallows all the time. What’s your problem?”

“But shoving a red hot spit up his…” Will couldn’t even bring himself to say it.

Kit shook his head impatiently. “It’s beautiful, don’t you see? Poetic justice for people like us. It’s what would happen to me if they had their way. Seriously, William, sometimes I feel like I’m ten years older than you. The world is what it is. This particular event happened two hundred years ago, but the sentiment behind it still holds good.”

Will swallowed, suddenly nauseous, and he had to strain his voice to be able to reply, “I just don’t see why you should show such a horrendous punishment on stage for a crime you commit daily and for which no one is ever convicted.”

“Except the earl of Oxford.”

Will sighed. “Whatever.”

“Just relax,” Kit muttered. “It’s a play. Fiction, for God’s sake.”

It was. The whole thing was the fantastical creation of a poet’s seething brain. But if stories like that could be performed in the playhouse, how could they not outside of it? The expository scenes with Edward and Gaveston implied that such a life was possible. That it was natural. As if Kit and Will could live together like the lovers that they were, like man and husband – as if they could kiss in the street and manage a household together – as if they could argue and clown around and buy property together, listen to each other’s snores at night and have grumpy breakfasts in the mornings, raise children and cook dinner and tend a garden and grow old and die together.

Until the next to last scene. Until the punishment for such unspeakable crimes concluded the plot. Until Edward’s entrails were burned from inside for the filth of his sins to be incinerated.

Kit looked at him, gaze softened by Will’s obvious turmoil. “I’ll be alright, puppy.” His eyes were so earnest that Will’s heart cramped at the sight. He was still skittish like a blushing bride on her wedding night even though they had been at it continually – if sporadically – for months now. The warmth of new love coursed through him despite the December cold. But their encounters were too few and too far apart. It was actually kind of funny, in an ironic kind of way. Will had a wife _and_ a lover, and yet he lived in continuous sexual want.

He felt a hand in his hair. “Better not,” Will whispered.

“Who’d think to look up here?”

Will said nothing. He wanted more than anything to follow Kit’s lead and lie down on the roof, just let him take what he wanted and to hell with everyone else. But he had been cautious his whole life. Being lust-crazed went some way to changing that, but not all the way.

“Let’s go to your lodgings, then,” Kit murmured. Heart speeding up at the thought, Will nodded and clambered down from the roof. In obedience to the rules he had insisted on setting up, Kit stayed up there, feigning nonchalance for the benefit of any onlookers, while Will started homewards, body all fired up, wondering how on earth he’d make it through the fifteen minutes it would take Kit to reach the same destination by another route.


	21. Chapter 21

“Well…” Master Tilney pursed his lips, adjusting the massive fur lined cloak that he always wore, even indoors. The Earl of Pembroke’s Men held their breaths, waiting for his verdict. They had performed Richard III in a flurry of scene changes and blurted lines, and their only obstacle now was the fearsome quill of the Master of the Revels. “I sincerely hope that this play was meant to be taken at face value.”

“Oh… of course,” Jack agreed quickly. “This is all meant as praise for the Queen. I mean, obviously!”

Tilney looked amused. “I know all about your tricks,” he muttered. “I haven’t had this office forever and a day without picking up a thing or two. And don’t think I don’t know that half of you are masterless men. Well, were, anyway. But never mind.” He sighed wearily. “Could you wait around for a bit?”

“Sir?”

“The Strange-Admiral’s are performing next, and I’d like to… Look, who’s your main man?”

At this, the players exchanged confused glances, having only just merged the street company with Pembroke’s, with no time to work out the new pecking order: there was no main man as yet.

Tilney rolled his eyes. “It really is as bad as they say, then? Don’t you people even have a proper hierarchy? Are you really trying to tear the fabric of reality apart?”

The Men hung their heads, none of them willing to pipe up and explain. Tilney sat back and drummed his fingers on the table, forehead in furrows.

“Well, it can’t be helped. The Queen needs her Christmas entertainment. And now, with the Admiral’s choosing such a scandalous subject matter…”

Will’s heart was speeding up. What was he saying? Were they being offered a job?

“But still, they must have the chance to prove themselves…” Tilney was talking to himself now, but shrugged himself out of his reverie to address the Men once more. “You. Yes, you.” He gestured impatiently at Richard. He shot an awkward glance at the actor who used to take on the biggest parts before Will shoved _Richard III_ into the hands of his friend and demanded that he star in it. “If I do decide to employ you, can you be ready in five days?”

Will could almost hear Richard gasp, his pride more than a little hurt at the outrageous jibe. “Master Tilney,” he growled. “We can be ready in five minutes.”

“Well… then I might just command you to Whitehall on Boxing Day.”

There was a hush in the room as the news sank in. A host of contradictory feelings fought it out in Will’s chest, and Tilney seemed to sense it. Turning to look at him, he said, “Unless you’re afraid to show it to her? What with Richmond hiding out in France and all…. murder within families and unwelcome wooers and I know not what…”

“Not at all,” Will hurriedly replied. “We’ll be honoured to praise her in her own house.”

Tilney gazed at him for a few long moments and then he shrugged. “Yes, well, it’s either that or _Edward_ , then.”

Will barely had time to readjust his features before the competing troupe barged in, Kit in their midst. The room was still cluttered with _Richard III_ paraphernalia, but they made short work of replacing it with _Edward II_ props. “You’ll have to wait outside,” Tilney said, but Kit slung a protective arm over Will’s shoulder.

“He can watch.” His voice was hard, not to be gainsaid. Tilney grimaced, visibly searching for a counterargument. Will sitting in on his rivals’ performance probably breached protocol fearfully, yet something in Kit’s manner made Tilney acquiesce with an irritated wave of the hand. Will took his seat beside Kit, dumbfounded at the concession. He glanced at Kit, expecting a smug grin, but his face was a bland mask. Will’s gaze dropped to take in his muddy stockings and unlaced shirt. He had begun noticing – and keeping track of – how Kit’s appearance corresponded with his mood. Shabbiness and a general lack of hygiene meant depression, while a pearl in the ear, newly polished shoe buckles and the purple doublet signalled exuberance. There was never an in-between level where he was just happy.

Except of course for post-coitus, but then he was naked.

On the makeshift stage, the actors had begun the piece, and Will was startled to hear Edward suddenly exclaim, “ _Am I a king, and must be overruled?_ ” Will frowned at Kit, whose mouth trembled with sudden laughter. _He’s insane_ , he thought for the hundredth time. _Am I a king, and must be overruled…_ He glanced at Tilney, who was scribbling something. Noting what must be struck out of the play, no doubt. Well, this would be a very busy day for that particular quill.

As if to confirm that thought, the actor playing Gaveston flung his cloak away and stepped forward, drawing a gasp from the love-struck king. “ _I can no longer keep me from my lord!_ ” Will’s eyes flitted again to Master Tilney, who surveyed the scene with narrowed eyes, quill indecisively balanced on his finger.

“ _What, Gaveston, welcome, kiss not my hand_ ,” Edward exclaimed in a voice so laden with emotion that Will almost choked to hear it. “ _Embrace me, Gaveston, as I do thee_.” The younger man moved towards Edward. Will tensed. Would they touch? Like that? Could the Master of the Revels brook such a palpable flouting of morals?

“Calm down,” Kit whispered, snaking an arm around Will and sending cascades of goose bumps down his back.

Drawing on all his discipline, Will shied away. “Don’t.”

“What? As long as you don’t pull that terrified face of yours, no one will care.”

Will shook his head. “You’ll be hanged.” He had lost count of how many times he had said it. “I mean, do you want to be executed?”

Kit scoffed. “Why should I be executed? Nobody is ever executed for a bit of harmless fun.”

“Except when it’s connected to coining, atheist propaganda and general mayhem.”

Kit was needled. “Well, do you want to live a lie your whole life?”

“If it means that I actually get a whole life, I might consider it.”

Will became aware of Tilney’s eyes on them and composed himself. With a twitch in his cheek, the Master of the Revels turned his attention towards the play again, and Will realised that Gaveston and Edward had ended their scene while Tilney’s attention had been on the bickering writers. He shot Kit a questioning glance. Had he planned it? Had he drawn Tilney’s gaze on purpose, to ease the play’s passage through this needle’s eye?

At that moment there was a soft knock on the door. A man slipped in and approached soundlessly, stealthy like a ferret. Heart pierced by an icicle, Will recognised him. It was Poley. Their eyes met, and Poley stiffened ever so slightly. Then he turned his evil eye on Kit instead. A minute gesture was all that was needed. Without a word, Kit stood and followed him outside. Will looked at the closing door, his stomach coiling in fear. “ _Is that wicked Gaveston returned?_ ” the bishop of Coventry was asking into the echoing silence.

“ _Ay, priest,_ ” Edward replied in a vicious snarl. “ _And lives to be revenged on thee, that wert the only cause of his exile_.”

Will hugged himself, cold to the bone. Kit had left in Poley’s company before, and all had turned out well. But how many lives did he have? Maybe rumour of the play had already reached Walsingham’s replacement at the head of the secret service? How much license would the new man allow?

When Kit came back in, his face was stony.

“What did he want?”

“ _My Lord, I hear it whispered everywhere, that I am banished and must fly the land_ ,” Gaveston cried out in a voice so filled with anguish that Will’s heart ached at it. He grabbed the king’s hand and almost brought it to his lips. At the same time, Will felt Kit’s hand fumble for his. He froze and felt his heart plunge. He wanted to speak, to scream his refusal, to defy the stars…

“ _’Tis true, sweet Gaveston_ ,” Edward lamented. “ _Oh, were it false!_ ”

“ _Is all my hope turned to this hell of grief?_ ” Gaveston whispered, and a tingling pulse of pain throbbed through Will’s body. Others spoke of Marlowe’s ‘mighty line’, his depiction of ambition, but that was only shallow fireworks. Kit’s real talent lay in portraying the pain of loss.

“ _Thou shalt not hence_ ,” Edward said. “ _I’ll hide thee, Gaveston_.”

“ _I shall be found_ ,” the younger man sobbed. “ _And then ’twill grieve me more_.”

Edward shook his head in perfect imitation of disbelieving agony. “ _Kind words and mutual talk makes our grief greater. Therefore, with dumb embracement, let us part_.” He fiercely clutched his lover to his chest. “ _Stay, Gaveston! I cannot leave thee thus. _”__

____

____

Gaveston wrenched free of the king’s arms. “ _For every look, my love drops down a tear: seeing I must go, do not renew my sorrow_.” He made to leave, but Edward caught his arm.

“ _The time is little that thou hast to stay, and, therefore, give me leave to look my fill_.”

They gazed at each other desperately, mere players boldly enacting the doomed love of men long dead, but Will no longer followed the story. He had turned to Kit and was irrevocably lost in the impossible softness of his eyes, even as they were dealing their mortal wounds. “Not again…” he whispered, his chest hollow like an empty nutshell at the finality of his lover’s decision to leave.

Kit’s voice was barely audible when he whispered, “Puppy, I have to. It’s either that or the Tower.”


	22. Chapter 22

The city seemed too silent when Kit was gone. Empty, lifeless. Slumped at the riverbank like an abandoned lover.

But Will had no time to mope. In the end, Tilney had decided that _Richard III_ was a more fitting story for the Queen’s Christmas celebrations than _Edward II_. Neither of the plays was very festive in nature, of course, but at least King Richard was an old-fashioned villain and no one could possibly grieve his death.

This time when Will came to Whitehall, he knew where to go. The guards recognised him and let him through to the frosty gardens, so different now that no flowers bloomed in their beds. When he came to the actors’ chamber, he was greeted by a chorus of genuine smiles. The Men were giddy with pride that Tilney had chosen them. They saw no flies in the ointment. Only Will’s throat was dry with the tiniest hint of apprehension. The subversive content was still in there, uncut by Tilney and about to be presented to the Queen. Of course, Will could still change his mind, could strike out all the angry lines that he and Kit had midwifed during nights of inky delirium.

“Will, you crazy bastard,” Richard laughed and grabbed him by the neck to shake him playfully. “He might be Tilney the Abominable Censor, but you’re all set to become Master of the Rebels!”

Will grinned, acknowledging the praise, determined to keep his spirits up. He had had a letter from the Low Countries, assuring him that Kit was still alive and that he would be coming home before long. Don’t worry, I’m having all my clothes washed regularly. It had set Will temporarily at ease, but a few scribbled lines, although from a dearly loved hand, was far from enough.

But there was nothing he could do to help his lover, far away on the Continent. What he could do was to encourage the merging Men, who were even now fighting like cocks for supremacy on the dunghill. As if there was honour to be had among mere players.

“Tell him! Tell him what a hit _The Shrew_ was in the suburbs,” Pope hollered.

“They loved it,” Will confirmed smilingly, and was met with a derisive snort from Augustine.

“Well, this isn’t the suburbs, my friend. This is Whitehall.”

“So? You don’t think I’ve performed at courts in my day?” Pope shot back.

“In your day? You can’t be a minute over twenty!”

Will chuckled at their posturing, but his grin faded when his eyes snagged on the boy who had taken Christopher’s place in the troupe. Young Nick was talented, that wasn’t the problem. Will just wished he knew where Christopher had disappeared to. One day, he had just been gone, and nobody knew where. They had had to share a boy with another company for a while before they found a replacement. There had been some grumbling, but Will wasn’t so sure that Christopher had left willingly.

“Hey W-will!” Jack grinned and slapped his back, interrupting his thoughts. “Planning to leave the swordplay to the professionals this time, I hope?”

Will scowled. “At least this time we’re in the proper chamber, with proper windows,” he attempted to deflect.

“Come on, I’m just joking, you know that, right? You’re one of us now! W-we’re conquering this city once and for all!”

Will forced a smile, heart once again speeding up at the thought of the subversive lines hidden in the play. “Well, this afternoon will decide that.”

“Right, everyone gather around me,” Jack ordered, turned instant leader in the chaos. “Is everyone here? Right. All of you, take your clothes off.”

“What?”

“New routine. Master Tilney wants to make sure that no one’s got the plague.”

The Men groaned, but instantly obeyed: if the order came from Master Tilney, it might as well come from the Queen herself. They all started pulling at their costumes – all except the new boy. He just stood there until Jack barked, “Get a move on! You must be inspected too.”

Nick threw a sideways glance at Will. “I’m not stripping in this company.”

Jack stared at the boy in disbelief. “Since w-when?”

“Since some lecherous old goat’s going to shove their hand up my crotch, pretending to look for buboes.”

Jack scoffed. “W-we’re w-what, all of seven years older than you? Get your kit off, boy.”

Nick looked around sullenly. Everyone else was pulling at their lacings. With a grudging grimace, he started to undo his bodice. “Will you quit staring?” he lashed out and turned his back to Will as he peeled his dress off.

“Sorry,” Will mumbled and got to work on his own clothing.

“Right, everyone pair up,” Jack ordered and was instantly obeyed. Will turned to face Nick and winced to see his forbidding glare.

“You know, I didn’t mean to… I’m not like that!” he said, but Nick didn’t reply. As he felt Nick’s throat, armpits and groin for any swelling, he was exceedingly careful and Nick was stiff as a rod. “You’re clean.”

He held out his arms for Nick to return the favour. The youth squeezed and prodded roughly. Then he gave a curt nod. “You’re okay.”

Their eyes locked for a moment. The boy’s cheeks were red, and his eyes were filmed over. Tearing his gaze from Will’s, he hurriedly stepped into his dress again and covered himself.

“Everyone alright?” Jack asked, and got some relieved grumbles in reply. “Alright then. Take your places.”

Nick struggled with his bodice, but Will didn’t dare offer to help. He had already made the youth uncomfortable, and he didn’t want him to get even more suspicious than he already was.

Although why he should think Will a molester was beyond him. A grown man couldn’t love a youth like that.

But even as he felt nausea threaten, Will battled an internal image of Master Jenkins, and the February dusk that had hidden them as he was invited to his teacher’s lodgings. For a moment, he imagined their roles reversed: that Master Jenkins had been the one to dote on Will. It was inconceivable, of course, but what if his teacher had offered? Would Will have been able to resist? He had been fourteen at the time, but in Master Jenkins’s company, he had felt almost like an adult.

***

_As the night fell outside Master Jenkins’s windows, the teacher twirled his mug in his hands. Will watched the motion, eyes hopelessly snagged on those thin, elegant fingers._

_“Why don’t you write something for the boys to perform?” Master Jenkins asked suddenly._

_Will’s scalp prickled. “You mean… a play?”_

_“Yes. We’d show it in the guildhall.”_

_A warm frisson travelled down Will’s body. He should say no, should shy away from this strange feeling that threatened to take over his entire being. But Master Jenkins’s face looked so innocent, as if he had no idea what went on in Will’s head. Maybe he hadn’t._

_“I can’t think of a subject matter,” Will mumbled finally._

_Of course Master Jenkins wasn’t fooled, but he had the grace not to laugh. “Pick a story from Ovid.”_

_For a moment, their eyes met, and Will’s soul was trapped – wrapped in a cocoon, a soft womb that he never wanted to leave. “Perhaps… I’d like to… write about Arachne.”_

_Master Jenkins looked momentarily surprised, and then he grinned. “Now there’s a challenge! So what would the message be?”_

_The thought made Will lightheaded: that he could have something to say, that someone could have any interest in his humble opinions. “I just… you know, I just want to tell this story about a simple girl that no one’s ever heard of, but she has this talent…”_

_“A girl who had not fame for place of birth, nor fame for birth, but only fame for skill,” Master Jenkins quoted, smiling._

_“Yes.” Will blushed. “And when she realises how good she is,” he said hurriedly, “she decides to take on this really big challenge and she dazzles everyone with her art, and she’s actually on the verge of winning over the goddess Minerva–”_

_“And then the moral,” Master Jenkins interrupted._

_Will’s shoulders fell. “Yes. Then the moral.”_

_“And what is the moral?”_

_“Well, it’s the Icarus story all over again, isn’t it? The dangers of hubris. Don’t fly too close to the sun. Vanity comes before a fall.”_

_Master Jenkins’s face glowed. Everything Will said found a home behind those twinkling green eyes. They shared a soul. Nothing but skin kept them apart. “So why don’t you write about Icarus?”_

_Will frowned. “Why should I?”_

_Master Jenkins hesitated. “Because he’s a man?”_

_Will was vaguely vexed. “Man, woman, what difference does it make?”_

_Master Jenkins raised his eyebrows. “The sexes are interchangeable for you, are they?”_

_Will opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He wanted to say ‘no’, but couldn’t. Images from the story of Hermaphroditus streamed into his mind._ Learn how the fountain, Salmacis, became so infamous… learn how it enervates and softens the limbs of those who chance to bathe… _But he wasn’t turning into a girl. Didn’t feel the slightest bit like one. So then what was wrong with him?_

_Master Jenkins cleared his throat and took a sip from his mug. “Remember what I told you, way back when you had first stolen Metamorphoses from the school?”_

_Will blushed deeper, but he did remember. “Learn to be invisible.”_

_“Yes. Hoodwink your enemies and speak to your friends. If you find the right words, they will reach the right people.”_

_Will nodded. “_ Who hath ears to hear, let him hear _…”_

_Master Jenkins cocked his head, gazed at him pensively. “You want to challenge a female authority and your protagonist is also female.”_

_“What of it?” Will was vaguely irked. “Women are a part of Creation, too. Without them, a link in the Great Chain of Being would be missing. What would the story of Venus and Adonis be without Venus? Adonis and… Zeus?” A hot blush seared his face at the thought._

_Master Jenkins averted his eyes, no doubt shocked. But he recovered quickly and said, “You’ve heard of Mary?”_

_“My mother?” Will croaked stupidly._

_Master Jenkins chuckled. “Queen of Scots.”_

_“Oh…”_

_“Yes, oh. A sore spot, to say the least. So you really need to make the ending of your play flamboyantly pro-Elizabeth.”_

_Will sighed, but he knew that his teacher was right. Because what would the alternative be? A version where Arachne won the competition, where Minerva was toppled and Arachne took her place? It was a dizzying possibility, but probably enough to get him hanged._

***

The trumpet blared, startling Will out of his reverie. His skin was burning, and a bead of sweat ran behind his ear. _Make the ending flamboyantly pro-Elizabeth._ Well, at least he had learned to do that. Nobody could find the slightest fault with this play.

Shaking off any shreds of unease, he turned to watch Richard hobble through the curtain, limping as if he had done nothing else in his life. One shoulder was bent, and his hand hung uselessly over his chest. Deformed in body as well as in mind. Will stroked his own arm absently. He too was deformed. His wrist was bent at an unnatural angle, and his appetites were hopelessly depraved – and yet he was let into the very heart of Whitehall. Because the Queen didn’t care?

He shivered, once. His presence here was based on a host of lies. He was a Stratford man, pretending to be a Londoner. An anomaly, conquered by both man and woman. A father and a surrogate, an impostor in his own life.

But when he turned and looked at the flushed faces of his fellow players, he knew that they were all pretending, all covering up. It all came together here, in the pageant of the court, where faces were put on with a trowel. Even the Queen herself played a part: she spoke from a roll that her counsellors had written, and if there had ever been natural beauty behind that death mask of hers, it had long since withered from lack of exposure. While the company played for her, she also performed for them – pretending to laugh, to cry, to be moved by their poetry.

Maybe nothing was what it seemed to be.

***

“So how’d it go?”

Richard looked up, frowning as he groped for an answer that would satisfy the pleasant host. He and Will had been sitting here for the better part of the morning, huddling in a corner with their drinks and avoiding each other’s eyes. Now Will reluctantly met Richard’s gaze, and Richard shrugged. How had it gone? No one could say.

“That bad, huh?” the host commiserated. “Second round’s on me.”

They acknowledged the gesture with hung-over nods, but still the question gnawed at the back of their aching skulls. How had it gone?

A silence had descended on the court when the final words were spoken, when Will-as-Richmond turned to the Queen and proclaimed the long-awaited peace, wishing that she may long live here, God say amen. It was meant as a final flourish to her, of course, but she hadn’t acknowledged it. Not even with a curt nod. She had just sat there for a moment, looking stunned, and then she had stood and left the chamber in a breathless rustle of silks. The rest of the court had stayed put for a while, fumbling for the requisite etiquette. There had been no applause, since the Queen hadn’t instigated it. No hissing either, since they couldn’t be sure that she had hated it. In the end, the audience had just dissipated in silence. The actors had made an equally hasty exit, gathered their stuff and taken a boat downriver to the Boar’s Head, drinking themselves silly in a futile attempt to forget the harrowing afternoon. Had they completely botched it?

Now they had slept on it, and they still didn’t know. “I’m hungry,” Richard sighed. “Let’s get some sparrows.”

Will shrugged and downed the last of his beer. Better not spend money on expensive tavern food now that their future was so uncertain. Wiping his mouth, he followed Richard to the hurly-burly morning market at Smithfield. There he slouched against the grill stand to wait for his bird, only to be startled by a miserable voice whining in his ear, “You didn’t tell me you had such a big success.”

Will turned to see Robert, looking even sulkier than usual. “Success?” he scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Oh, too famous to speak to me now, are you?” Robert’s nostrils quivered in disgust.

“Look, there’s no need to be a prat,” Will shot back. “We don’t know that she didn’t like it.”

Robert looked confused. “Who didn’t…?”

“Who do you think? The Queen.”

“What’s the Queen got to do with _King John_?”

Oh. Will coloured. So Robert wasn’t talking about last night’s debacle. He was just seething at Will’s blatant theft. “It’s just another play,” he muttered. “No one will even remember it in a few weeks.” As soon as it was out of his mouth, he knew he had put his foot in it. Robert was already reddening in rightful indignation. “Alright, it’s had a fair run,” Will hurried to retract. “And I did steal some of it from yours, I admit, but… look on it as a tribute. You should be flattered!”

Robert stared at him as if he was even dumber than he had thought. “You think you can come here and just take anything you like,” he breathed.

Will looked away, shamed by the accusation, but he still maintained his right to use whatever material was out there. Words didn’t belong to anyone. You couldn’t claim ownership of a text unless you were a printer, and even then any book was a free-for-all. He shouldn’t have to explain this to some red-bearded loser who thought he owned the damn alphabet.

Richard stepped up behind him, ready to draw his dagger in his friend’s defence if it came to blows. “Will got money for it, you got money for it, what’s the problem? The company thought it was worth paying for a rewrite. It’s not as if he’s robbing you, is it?”

Robert shook his head in disbelief, eyes narrowing in barely suppressed rage. “The fucking _poster_ had his _name_ on it.”

Will’s heart made a jump and he felt his mouth fall open. “Wh…” he managed.

“Oh, you didn’t notice, did you?” Robert grimaced sarcastically, obviously convinced that Will was feigning. “Well, congratulations, it’s now officially _your play_.” He made to walk away, but Will stopped him with a rough hand on his arm.

“What the hell are you talking about? What poster?”

Robert turned and stared. “Every fucking poster in the whole fucking city!” he exploded. “Shakespeare, Shakespeare, Shakespeare, it’s all over the fucking place!” He wrenched free and stomped off.

Will was left standing, heart racing painfully. “I don’t understand…”

“I suppose they’ve… I don’t know, printed your name along with the… well, the name of the patron,” Richard wavered. “Or something like that…”

“But…”

“Your sparrow’s done, sir,” the grill-master chirped and Richard took it absent-mindedly. “Just a moment, the other one’s coming right up.”

“I don’t believe it,” Will decided, shaking off his momentary lapse of sanity. What was he thinking, buying into a crazy story like that? His name? On a poster? Not even Tom had had that privilege. Not even Kit! He chuckled at the thought, his breathing slowly returning to normal. He had really got under that Robert fellow’s skin, though. Threatening the intelligentsia – that was a feat in itself.

As he turned back to the counter to wait for his bird, a handful of slumming nobles were jostling their way past the queue to the fruit stall next to them. With a fresh flutter of the heart, Will remembered seeing them the day before at Whitehall. He shot Richard a nervous look before he turned away, unwilling to be recognised if the play should be in disgrace. “Hey there Lord Tangerine, give me a couple of those lovelies, will you?” one of the nobles hollered, and Will recognised him as the earl of Southampton, a frequent play-goer and lover of flamboyant hats.

The stall owner went into a state at the sight of the highborn gentleman, but smoothed it over with some risqué banter. “Are you good for it, then, my lord?”

“Even the street-sellers know I’m broke,” Southampton chuckled and slammed a few coins on the counter. His friends took their fruits, peeling them as they moved away through the crowd and making noisy quips about the poor state of Southampton’s finances. Just as they turned the corner, he could be heard laughing, “A purse, a purse, my kingdom for a purse!”

Will stiffened in shock. His whole world ground to a sudden halt. Blood rushed to his face as he stared open-mouthed at the empty space the nobles had just now occupied.

“You want your sparrow or not?” the grill-master enquired impatiently. Will turned to him in a daze. Reaching for the charred carcass, his fingers smarted from the heat, making him drop it in the mud.

“Move it,” an angry man behind him bellowed, shoving him out of the way to get to the front of the queue. Will walked a few steps and then stopped to stare at his greasy fingers, trying to remember what to do with them. He only came to when Richard started wiping them with his handkerchief.

“He said…” Will began, confused.

Richard nodded with a stupid grin on his face. “Yes, he did.”

“And the others…”

“… got it. Indeed.”

Will finally remembered to breathe, and the air that filled his lungs seemed all white and pure, as if untainted by the fumes of the cess-pit that was London. From nowhere, a feeling of elation filled him. He felt at one with the city. This was where he belonged. At long last, this was his home.

And finally, he could bring his family here to show them what he had become.


	23. Chapter 23

“William!”

At the sight of them, Will’s breath caught in his throat. There they were: like a mirage against the backdrop of Finsbury Fields, a wary group of refugees huddling together on the muddy grounds of the Theatre. Mother, suspicious glances warding off threats both real and imaginary; father, proud to know his way around the suburbs but still not taking any chances; Agnes, her face awash with emotions too numerous to define.

“Darling…” she came forward, smiling through a mist in her eyes, arms held wide for him to bury himself, to remind himself where he fit in.

“I missed you,” he murmured into her soft curls. “So, so much.” And Kit, an answering voice inside him whispered. He held her at arm’s length and perused her face. In the pure morning light the full scope of her tough life was evident: hundreds of minute lines traced the area around her eyes, her lips were chapped and her cheeks seemed to be sagging slightly. “Beautiful…” He touched the soft skin of her face and wondered if he had aged as much or if his toil had kept him young instead.

“Still long-haired, I see,” father grunted, but Will didn’t comment. Father would be made aware of the city fashions soon enough.

Just as the silence threatened to become uncomfortable, Richard stepped out of the door to the Theatre. “So pleased to meet you all,” he smiled winningly and shook hands. “Come on, let me show you around.” With that he took the lead like some mother duck, leading Will’s family around the pit, the gallery and the stage, pointing and smiling and explaining how things were done. Mother’s breathless rapture was almost comical, and Will had to remind himself that he, too, had once been filled with awe at this immense structure which rose towards the heavens like a roofless church.

The tour done, his family left to make themselves at home in a lodging-house. The morning dragged by in an irritable haze, and when midday came, Richard sent Will packing. “You’re of no use to us here,” he smiled. “See you at the performance tomorrow.” Will wondered for the hundredth time what he could possibly have done to deserve such unflinching loyalty. He certainly didn’t repay in kind.

“Let’s go eat at the Boar’s Head,” he told his family as he came to get them. “They have lamb to die for.” At his words, Agnes smiled and shook her head. “What, you want something else?”

“No no, it’s just… your way of speaking. You sound like a Londoner.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “Londoners think I speak like a peasant.”

Leading the way through the city made him look at it with new eyes. The constant traffic of carriages and the sing-song cries of the vendors exceeded market day in Stratford by a long shot. His guests kept darting their eyes this way and that, and each time they crossed the street, they looked both ways several times. They pointed and babbled about all the exotic things they saw: legless beggars, fortune tellers, the occasional blackamoor, the flurry of ruffs making for the ceilinged galleries by St Paul’s at the least sign of rain. It was all new to them.

They arrived at the Boar’s Head and he placed them all at the best table, which took some high-pitched haggling with the hostess. While they waited for their food, he asked them about their lodgings and hummed and aahed at their answers, striving to be polite and wondering why politeness was necessary. This was his family. Talking to them shouldn’t be a strain.

But he had all but avoided them for full five years. Five years! It was unheard of for a husband and father to remain absent for such a long time. Even the merchants returned regularly to their wives, their purses bursting with money and their codpieces with pent-up lust. In contrast, Will crept back in shame for Lent with hardly a penny to his name and all his seed spent in a foreign lap.

Well, normally he did. This time he was practically a virgin again, Kit having been gone for three months now.

“So… how’s your, um, career?” father asked eventually, discomfort evident in his tone.

“Good, good,” Will replied lightly. “I’m gaining a reputation.”

“I’m glad.”

Of course, father was still waiting for him to get a real job. He didn’t know that Will worked every day of the year, even Sundays; instead of listening to the word of God, he would sit in his pew, mulling over some intricate doubling he needed to solve. But that was nothing. The people of Stratford were butchers, tanners, bakers. Good, solid workers providing tangible products for everyday life. Writing was an ethereal activity, done almost exclusively at school. As an adult, you only really needed to be able to sign your name – and if you were important enough, not even that.

“And you feel at home in this…” Father glanced around the tavern. “In London?”

“I do,” Will said.

“Well, obviously,” Agnes smiled wanly. “You’ve stayed here long enough.”

Will’s mouth fell open. He had no idea how to respond.

Agnes sighed. “I know, I know… I was part of your decision to leave.”

“You encouraged it!”

“Yes.”

“Persuaded me.”

“Yes, but… I didn’t know it would be…” She fidgeted and avoided his gaze. Will swallowed drily. He could guess what she was getting at, and yet she struck him dumb when she went on, “Every time you leave, we get a little more used to your absence. We’ve had to learn how to live without you, and we’ve learnt our lesson well. Most of the time you aren’t a part of our lives. You coming home is like a holiday, an occasion, like Christmas. We rejoice in it, but we don’t expect it to last.”

Will went cold. Deep inside, he knew that she was making sense, but it stung too much to hear it. Maybe neither of them had really believed, deep down, that Will would actually succeed at his chosen profession. He had gone away on a kind of trial period, a short trip to test the waters, and now he had finally made it big. He had become a Londoner. His senses were filled with the sights and sounds of the capital, the smell of the Thames, the pealing of the St Leonard’s church bells, the taste of tavern food. He hardly remembered Agnes’s cooking anymore.

Their lamb arrived and the scraping of knives on ceramics filled the air. Will chewed on the meat mechanically, appetite evaporated. Why had he even brought them here? What was the point? Did he seriously think that they would understand? This wasn’t their world. It wouldn’t have been his either, but for his relationship with Kit. He was Will’s connection to this teeming city. He was his family here.

At that precise moment a honeyed voice reached him from the doorway behind his back. A shockwave shot through his ribs. He dropped his knife with a loud clatter and turned, already sure of what he would see: the dishevelled mane, the flashy clothes. His eyes found Kit’s face in the throng, just in time to see it break into a sunshine grin. Stumbling from his chair, Will took a step in his direction without thinking – he was drawn to his light like a moth – but then he stopped short, suddenly aware of a massive dilemma. Two very different worlds were meeting, and the clash was a potential catastrophe.

“Puppy, you’re hot shit now!” Kit came forward and embraced him with all the force of a spring storm. For a terrifying moment Will thought he was going to kiss him, which would seem perfectly innocent to any Londoners, but Will’s family, unused to city manners, would be deeply shocked. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I might say the same thing,” Will replied, weak at the knees.

“Aww… did you miss me?”

“Yes I did, damn you!” Will hissed. “Jack said you were arrested, but surely…?”

Kit laughed. “I was, for a while. But our government finds me much too useful to kill off, you know that. Besides, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have as much right to coin as the Queen of England. Stamping her ugly mug on a piece of metal is a craft like any other. It’s not the bloody communion, is it?”

“Well…” Will glanced uneasily at Agnes, who was watching their exchange with an inscrutable expression on her face. He made an apologetic grimace, willing Kit to understand. “Um… meet my wife?”

Kit’s breath caught in his throat. “Oh?” He faltered, his eyes taking in her appearance in one quick, derisive sweep. “Well then… maybe I should leave you to your married bliss and go home for a wank?”

 _Christ, behave yourself_ , Will told him silently, and Kit seemed to pick up on his discomfiture.

“Sorry, pup. I’ll be good, I promise.” His voice was suddenly suppliant when he murmured, “Please… let me join you?”

“Yes, I… I should introduce you…”

“No need, I’ll do it.” Kit rallied his good spirits and turned to the silenced group. “Christophorus Merlino at your service, good people. _Enchanté de faire votre connaissance_.” He shook hands around the table. Will followed his movements, ready to jump in and smooth over any potentially embarrassing remarks, any uncouth behaviour. But Kit was being quite the gentleman for once. Mother beamed at him, the costliness of his clothes no doubt impressing her. Agnes was more guarded, and Will bit his lip, praying that she not suspect. Father grunted his usual reserved greeting. Sitting, Kit waved at the drawer and ordered a mug of – Will frowned incredulously – small beer. As the weak liquid was served, their eyes met in tacit understanding over the mug. Kit really was trying to be good. Will had never seen him so subdued before – timid, almost, at least by his standards. He just sat at the table, wedged between Will and father, and rested his hands in his lap, waiting to be spoken to.

“So,” Agnes said slowly, her eyes on the two of them like a pair of hawks. “What’s this play that we’re going to see?”

“It’s about Richard III,” Will replied, a slight blush seeping into his face. It was stupid of course: there was no way that anyone could possibly guess at the smoke and smells and naked skin that had accompanied the birth of the hit, but it was enough that he himself knew. “We… I mean… well, we, uh…” He clenched his teeth. Should he conceal the fact that the play was a kind of collaboration? It wasn’t fair on Kit. But if he revealed that much of their relationship, what more would Agnes be able to surmise? “It’s, um…” He felt Kit’s hand under the table, soft on his thigh in a comforting, homely gesture that said _Go ahead, do what you have to, I don’t mind._ Will felt as if his heart had been pierced, the warm blood leaking into his chest like a healing spring. God, he loved that man to bits.

“I wrote it last autumn and it was performed at court.” He let his own hand cover Kit’s beneath the table, a light squeeze telling him that he knew what he was being offered and that he was prepared to sacrifice in return. “And Kit here helped me.” He felt rather than heard Kit acknowledge the gesture with a minute gasp.

“So you’re a playwright too?” Agnes asked. Kit nodded, looking up shyly from beneath his gleaming cascade of hair. There was a pause where everyone waited for him to say something, but he didn’t.

Agnes shot Will a quizzical look and he filled in for his friend. “He’s infinitely better than me. He made this profession.”

Normally Kit would have sat with his hands behind his head, smugly smiling at this praise, but instead he gazed into his mug of small beer, apparently embarrassed. “Well, I…” He stood up suddenly. “I’m off. I hear there’s a new wench at the Mermaid.” He smiled faintly as if to say that it was a harmless white lie for Will’s sake. As if mentioning female hookers were somehow better than admitting the truth. And maybe it was. Maybe that was Kit’s way of showing kindness in his own twisted way. “I hope you enjoy the play,” he murmured by way of farewells and avoided everyone’s eyes as he stumbled on a chair to get away. His mug remained, untouched.

“He didn’t pay,” Agnes said, pursing her lips. Will looked at the mug, trying to find something, anything to say. His mind was blank. Had Agnes seen the dark passions flaring up as they met? What could he say to defend himself? His crime was unmentionable. “How much money does he owe you?”

Will stared at her.

She looked back calmly.

“I… what?” he croaked.

“He’s not the sort to pay back. I can smell it a mile off.”

It was all the encouragement Will needed. “You’re right. This is the last straw.” Wiping his mouth, he stood quickly. “Be right back.” He tried not to run as he made his way to the door and down the street that he knew Kit had taken. Slipping in the thawing slush, panting through the deepening twilight, he soon saw the outline he was looking for. Kit had the time to turn and emit a muffled “Wha…?” before Will had pounced, hustling him into the deeper shadows of a nearby house.

“Puppy,” Kit smiled between kisses. “Sick of your dear ones so soon?”

Will squeezed his eyes shut in a vain attempt to fend off the image of his wife and the others, cutting and chewing their meat, making conversation and waiting for him to come back. Kit smilingly tugged at the points on his codpiece, but then something made him abandon his teasing manner. “Jesus, calm down.”

“What?” Will breathed. “I am calm.”

“No, you’re not. You’re shaking.”

To Will, it seemed to be the world that was shaking. Kit sat him down on the ground. “I should be with my family,” Will hiccupped.

Kit grabbed his hair and made him look into his face. “And yet here you are with me.”

“Yes. Here I am.” He swallowed and clutched at his doublet as if he could reach into his chest and seize his heart and make it still by sheer manual force. “Against my better judgment.”

Kit scoffed. “I always had the deepest disrespect for your judgment.”

Will let his head fall back on the wall with a groan. “I’m a horrible person.”

“Yes.”

“Leaving them alone like that.”

“Utterly disgraceful.”

“Choosing you.”

“Unforgivable.”

“I wish I could marry you too.”

Kit laughed. “I wouldn’t have you.”

Will sighed and leaned his head in his hands. “I should go back.”

“I suppose you should.” A sea of silence passed, and then Kit added, “How about a quickie before you do?”

Will opened his mouth to say no, but then he found that he was nodding, helpless like a drowning man. Kit smiled, and his hands, those hands that Will had missed so sorely for so many months, expertly undid every knot he could find in Will’s clothes. Will looked up at the tavern bush above, swinging in the wind like a bad omen. “What if the hostess hears us?” he whispered.

Kit shook his head. “She’s discreet. Hell, that place is crawling with ingles, you think she wants the authorities to poke their noses into her backyard?”

Will relaxed, and soon felt his lips melt at the touch of Kit’s mouth. Rising to meet him, he let Kit slide his hands down his loosened waistband and ply his warm magic in the wintry dusk. Once again, he was surprised at his own reaction: at the completely genuine desire this man could excite in him. At the _need._ At the realisation that he measured life in how many minutes he spent in his company.

The ebb and flow of their impromptu lovemaking was as soothing and rousing as the rocking of a moored boat. It was nobody’s business in the world but theirs. And when their pulses slowed down, Will sighed and slumped against the wall, content. He should be feeling dirty, used. Instead there was finally some peace within him.

“How dull my life would have been if I had never met you,” Kit breathed into his neck.

“Mm,” Will chuckled and did up his points again. “Because you can now compare it with mine.” He could feel his eyes glitter with renewed energy. Not ten minutes in each other’s company, and they had already picked up where they left off before Kit went to the Low Countries. He rubbed his face and yawned. “Thanks. For… you know.”

“Fucking you?”

“Nice.”

“Alright, _taking your mind off things_ ,” Kit corrected himself in an affected voice. Will hid a smile, then sighed and stepped away. He had spent a quarter of an hour in paradise, in timeless bliss, free from thoughts of his parents or about tomorrow’s performance, but reality was calling. He must go back and tell them that his friend had finally paid for the beer.

Kit waved lazily as Will walked out into the street again. Back in the real world, making his way through the snowy, foul-smelling alleys, the afterglow was drained from him and his stomach tied itself into knots. He wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. The only rest he would get, he had already had, in the arms of his Adonis.

Because this was it. The eve of the big battle. He had succeeded in the capital, but Stratford was still unconquered. The only place a prophet wasn’t honoured was in his hometown, among his relatives, and in his own house…

And uneasy lay the head that wore a crown.


	24. Chapter 24

Roars of laughter trickled back into the tiring-house. Kempe was doing some elaborate little dance that had nothing to do with the script as usual, and people were literally falling from their seats in the galleries. Will heard him clack his heels together with a loud yelp and the reaction was instantaneous, as if he controlled the crowd by magic.

Which was more than could be said about Will. Richard grimaced in sympathy as he watched him fumble with a wig. “Are you, um… nervous?” he asked softly.

Will swore under his breath and threw the wig into a corner. “Don’t you dare screw up your lines today.”

Richard looked amused. “When do I ever–”

“Also, see to it that the boy – what’s his name? Christopher’s replacement.”

“Nick.”

“Yeah, Nick. See to it that he remembers his bloody cues. And tell Kempe to skip the Gadshill jig, or they’ll think I’m a whoremonger!”

Richard smothered a chuckle and laid a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Look. This afternoon there are more people in the audience than in the whole of Stratford. That must count for something, don’t you think?”

“Hmh.”

“If nothing else, your father must admire a son that can muster such interest in a city where the brightest minds of the country fight it out for first place.”

Will’s chest constricted at the praise. It was true. Since he had started in the play-penning business, he hadn’t had one single flop. London had loved the _Henries_ , been thrilled by _Titus_ , laughed at _The Shrew_ and been dazzled by the sparkling repartee of the _Two Gentlemen._ And _Richard III_ , well into its fifteenth performance, was so far the crowning glory of his career. People didn’t just show up because there was a play on or because they wanted to gawk at the actor who threatened to eclipse Edward Alleyne himself – but also because he, Will Shaksper of Stratford, had written it.

Robert was livid, of course. Nashe wouldn’t speak to him. Tom was civil enough to his face but berated him unabashedly behind his back. Even Watson, although secure in his own talent and mostly gracious about Will’s success, sometimes lapsed into undignified bitching. But Will didn’t write for them. He wrote for his friends, for the people who had taken him in when he was green. For Richard, Augustine, Jack, Pope and Sinklo. They had never doubted him or sneered at his messy copies. They had known a good thing when they saw it. In his texts, they had seen their own voices reflected back at them, as though he had somehow internalised them all. Any one of the actors could pick up a script of his and immediately know which parts were meant for him.

His family, on the other hand…

There was another eruption of merriment from gallants and groundlings alike as Kempe finished a bawdy song.

“I just…” Will began, fumbling for the slippery words, aware that Richard must go onstage in moments. “I wish they could experience it… like I do.”

“Ah.” Richard winced sympathetically. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Why? Is it too much to ask that they be touched by poetry? That they finally see me for who I am? That they… _get_ it?”

But just as Richard was about to reply, Jack spoke his cue out there, and the conversation was cut short, as it always was between actors. The man before Will dissolved, and everything not connected to the play flew away like so many birds.

He was replaced by a panting Augustine. “I dare say your wife is star-struck,” he grinned at Will, dropping his props on a table.

“Huh? What?”

“Your wife.” Augustine chuckled. “She’s in the first row, gaping like a baby bird!”

“What about my father?”

Augustine shook his head and gave him a pat on the arm before going to change costumes. Well, father would be standing further back, that was obvious. He wasn’t keen on crowds, so he would prefer to be close to the door.

The sound of scraping metal signalled the start of the battle. Soldiers stormed the stage, drowning out the sound of Will’s hammering heart. A stagehand in the tower was shaking a metal sheet, and another was hidden below, banging coconuts together. A huge flag of red and gold was hanging from a pole, and a boy perched under the ceiling was shaking a thin thread tied to the upper corner, making the sheer cloth billow and dance before the awed eyes of the crowd. Will knew how the illusion was constructed, and yet he let himself believe it every time. The battle was a blur of silver and clanging metal, blaring trumpets and distant cries of triumph and death. Heads rolled and corpses fell, to the delighted gasps of the audience.

And then, all of a sudden, it all went still. Will could hear his own pulse pounding in his ears. A group of badly maimed survivors crawled across the boards, extending their hands towards the blood-spattered flag. Richard re-entered, his battered frame drenched with pigs’ blood, his head bare and his colours in shreds. Will felt expectation mount in the hushed crowd. They knew what was coming. They had heard it before. Some had even opened their mouths, ready to whisper the words along with the man on the stage. And through the haze of his all-consuming role, maybe Richard felt it too, because he waited longer than usual, staggering around, stepping over corpses and looking wildly around him.

And then, as the audience – for once – were completely quiet, he drew a rattling breath and cried, at the top of his lungs:

“ _A horse!_ ”

The two syllables seemed to echo across the whole of London, like a wave crashing onto a pebbled shore. A moment’s recharging, an intake of breath, and again:

“ _A horse!_ ”

Then, maybe because of the magical atmosphere of this afternoon, maybe something else, Richard flung out his arms towards the audience in an inviting gesture.

“ _My kingdom for a horse!_ ” came the answer, many-throated and deafening like the roar of the Thames underneath London Bridge, and Will’s heart exploded in his chest.

***

“So what did you think?” He was sweating profusely when he finally found his family in the throng outside the Theatre. His heart beat so hard, it was all he could do to keep his voice from trembling.

“Very interesting,” his father replied without looking him in the eye. “Yes… very interesting.”

“Absolutely,” his mother gushed. “You’re so talented, darling!”

Agnes reached out to touch his face. “I knew it. I knew I was right to send you here.” But her eyes were sad, as if she understood now that he would never be able to leave – that he had been carried away by a current too strong to resist. He breathed in to reply, but there was nothing to say. “It was marvellous,” she smiled bravely, and he reached for her hand to kiss it.

“Well…” Father pursed his lips, marking the need to tone it down. “It was a good show. There’s no denying that.”

Will looked up, weary to the core. “But?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just that nowadays… no, never mind. Times have changed, I can see that. Who cares what a white-haired old man thinks, eh?” He chuckled artificially. “It’s no longer like the old mystery plays, that’s for certain. I don’t really understand how that monster could be played in such a… well, sympathetic manner.”

Will laughed a little. “Sympathetic?”

“Yes. You know, parading Vice on stage without the proper signals can confuse people. What if they think such behaviour is acceptable?”

“Don’t listen to him,” mother whispered. “I think it was perfect.”

But Will turned to his father again, determined to be civil. “If you didn’t like it, at least you didn’t have to pay for it.”

“Yes, well, you really shouldn’t have…”

“And why not?”

“You can’t make too much money out of this, can you? So why should we be a burden to you, when we are perfectly capable of paying our way ourselves?”

Will breathed shallowly. “And would you have come if I hadn’t arranged everything?”

Father started to answer, but stopped short. His eyes darted this way and that as he sought a stammering way out of the corner he had been forced into. “Well, to tell you the truth…” he wavered.

“Yes, please do. I long to hear it!”

Father frowned at him and apparently decided to be frank. “People at home don’t necessarily understand what it is that you do. They only see an absent husband and father. And when we come here… it’s as if we condone that behaviour.”

“Condone?” Will looked at his mother, but her face was impassive. “What, your reputation is marred by your connection to me? Is that it? You’re ashamed to have someone so degenerate in the family?”

Father shook his head sadly. “Degenerate? Big words, my son. But paper will decay, while our house will stand forever. Build a house, William, not a castle of dreams.”

“I have a career,” Will began, but father shook his head.

“This country was built on manual labour. A man who cannot work with his hands is only a parasite.”

Will’s breath came in starts. “This country was also built on ideas,” he tried to counter. “And a man who cannot think for himself…”

“Think for himself?” father exploded. “What kind of Protestant rubbish is that?” He turned to mother. “You see? This is what happens when authority is undermined. He had a predestined path and he deviated from it. Now we all reap the rewards. I’m your damned father, William. You should be ruled by me!”

“But I’m building a name for myself – your name – I’m restoring our, our… ancient roots!”

“Ah, the incomparable Ardens with their pedigree,” father sneered.

“Yes, but the name they’re getting to know here isn’t Arden,” Will shouted angrily. “It’s Shakespeare!”

Too late, he realised that he had used the London pronunciation. Father looked as if someone had just cut his head off. “Can’t you hear yourself?” he whispered. “Changing your name… William, that’s who you _are_.”

Will took a step back. He was nodding, but it was a meaningless gesture, nothing but a nervous twitch. “Oh, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. I am what I call myself, and I have thrown off my family name.”

His parents stared at him. “William!” mother breathed, too shocked even to scold him. But his father only looked sad. Will’s heart was struck with a chill at what he had said, but it was too late to take it back.

Bowing his head, he sighed deeply. “I suppose you’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a question. Mother’s eyes flitted between them. Father cleared his throat. “Well, let’s go then, since we’re not welcome here. We’ll repay him when we have the money.”

“No need,” Will mumbled.

“He’s just angry that you didn’t like his play, John,” mother whispered. “He’ll come round. I’m sure we’ll all laugh about this tomorrow.”

But nothing could dispel the mood. Stratford pulled at his family with all the finality of the tide, and they had to go. Short embraces marked the rift, and as they all walked away Will was left standing in the thinning crowd outside the Theatre.

A touch on the shoulder made him start. “Everything alright?” Richard’s voice was soft, unobtrusive. Will nodded. They both knew he was lying, but words were superfluous. Richard changed the subject. “We might be going on tour soon.”

“Right.”

“There’s been some deaths in the suburbs.”

“Yeah.”

A brief silence, broken again by Richard. “So… the Boar’s Head?”

“Sure. Just let me get my cloak.”


	25. Chorus: 1616

He awoke to a dull ache in his arm. He frowned at the twilit bedroom. It was empty. The fire was covered, but someone had put an extra blanket on him.

Still alive, then. How was it possible? He’d felt Death’s fingers reach up for him, ready to pull him into the deep. What had held him back? He had a faint memory of a voice, saying something, calling out to him…

But the only visitor he’d had was Dick, and he certainly wasn’t enough to entice him back to life. Smiling bitterly, Will raised a hand to rub his face. His arm pulsed in pain, and he grimaced. The leeches. An excuse to torture patients, for doctors who hated their work?

He sighed. Still alive. But for what purpose? He was done. Why couldn’t his body agree? Everything that had made up his life was over. His shell was just lingering, lingering… afraid, perhaps, of what came after.

Groaning, he leaned back against the pillows. A few minutes passed as he remained there, eyes closed, waiting. _Where are you?_ he demanded in the darkness behind his eyelids. _I’m ready._

Nothing.

Instead there was a creak from the floorboards outside his room, and then a knock. Will frowned. Who in this household cared about knocking? What was the point? “Yes?” he called out.

The handle turned, and a man of some sixty years came in. He stopped on the threshold and swept his gaze over Will’s bedridden form, and then he seemed to shake his head in disbelief. “Good evening, son.” He was heavy-set and tired-looking, but there was something vaguely familiar about his eyes.

“Good evening, um, Master…?”

The smile that greeted him was warm, but tinged with sadness. “Please, Will. None of that Master nonsense. It’s a long time since you were my pupil.”

Will recoiled in his bed. The stranger before him shed forty years in an instant. “Master _Jenkins_?”

His old teacher chuckled. “Didn’t I tell you to call me Thomas?”

As he closed the door behind him and approached the bed, Will battled to breathe. “You did,” he replied hoarsely. “But there are many Thomases in this world, and only one Master Jenkins.”

“Well, as I understand it, there’s only one Shakespeare.” Master Jenkins pronounced the name the London way, and for some reason it struck Will’s heart more keenly than anything else. No one in Stratford said his name like that.

He sat on Richard’s chair and gave Will a thoughtful smile. “So you have a family.”

Will’s reply snagged on sudden hesitation. “Yeah…”

Master Jenkins chuckled. “You sound unsure?”

“No, no.” Will forced a breathy laugh. “It’s just…” He spread his hands. “I’ve lived away from them so long that–”

Master Jenkins held up a hand. Shook his head. “I suppose I should have known. Someone who writes like that doesn’t just see the world one way.” He looked wistful. “So I suppose my most important lesson stayed with you: to speak between the lines.”

“That wasn’t your most important lesson.” Will’s heart was picking up speed now, heavy with blood and too much truth. “I–”

Master Jenkins put a hand on his arm. “Don’t. As I said, you learned your lesson well. I never married at all.”

Will felt his chest hollow out. He cleared his throat and looked away. “I love my wife,” he said, and immediately regretted it. Why would anyone doubt that?

But Master Jenkins understood. “ _Never man sigh’d truer breath_ ,” he said softly. “ _But that I see thee here, thou noble thing, more dances my rapt heart than when I first saw her bestride my threshold_.”

Will stiffened, emotion choking him up. His own words from Master Jenkins’s lips were a breath-taking impossibility. “So much for speaking between the lines.”

“Well, _he who hath ears_ …”

Reluctantly, Will smiled at the memory of that evening, of the earnest advice once passed from grown man to fledgling poet. It felt so long ago. So alien. Now that Master Jenkins sat beside him in his sixty-five year old incarnation, it was difficult to understand how he had been able to excite such passion in Will’s younger counterpart. There was still kindness and intelligence in those green eyes, and Will warmed at the memory of their joint work on _Arachne_. But to have idolised him to the point of wanting to–

“I know, I haven’t aged well,” Master Jenkins smiled.

Will looked away, heart suddenly too big for his chest. “You always were perceptive,” he mumbled, heat rising in his face as if he were a boy again. “But…” he croaked, “you never… _did_ anything.”

Master Jenkins cocked his head. “Did what?”

“Nothing.” Will hunched his shoulders. “Nothing.”

At once, his old teacher went rigid. The look on his face was pure horror. “Why would I…? Christ, William… you were a child!”

Will looked down at his covered lap. There was no way to explain. He knew of a world where such things were not deemed impossible, but to say so would pollute him, would pollute this very moment.

“So where did you go?” he forced out at last. “When you left Stratford, I mean.”

“Canterbury.”

Will’s head jerked up. Too late, he pretended that he had been surprised by something in the darkness outside the window, but of course Master Jenkins already knew. True to his nature, he didn’t ask, just waited. Fighting a brief and pointless battle with himself, Will gave in with a sigh. “ _He_ came from Canterbury.”

Master Jenkins nodded slowly. “Marley.”

A hand closed around Will’s throat. He didn’t ask how Master Jenkins knew. He had just quoted _Coriolanus_ : there must be no end to what he could deduce with just a few snippets of poetry for evidence. Poetry that still bore traces of a dead man from Kent.

There was an awkward pause, and then Master Jenkins laid a hand on Will’s shoulder. “I always knew you’d be special.”

Will shrugged. “Thank you…”

Master Jenkins squeezed his shoulder, for all the world like a priest giving the benediction, and Will marvelled at the strange ways of God. It was as if his whole life had led him here: Master Jenkins was the one who had given him Metamorphoses, and now, forty years later, here he was again. Like an angel, come to bless him at the end of his path – to say, in his father’s stead, _You did well, son._

Swallowing, Will reached out for the book on his nightstand. It was the only thing he had managed to save from the fire at the Globe, and even though he knew it by heart, he always kept it by his bed. “Here.” He held it out to Master Jenkins.

“Oh.” He turned the book over in his hands, opened it in the middle. Then he looked up. “It’s _that_ copy.”

Will nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His childish handwriting filled the margins of every page, tracing the confusing passions of a once naïve fourteen-year-old. “I’m sorry if I was ever… you know. Weird.”

Master Jenkins chuckled. “As I said, you were a child. I think, since then, you’ve done some growing up?”

“I suppose I did,” Will said, blushing at the subtext.

Master Jenkins’s cheeks coloured a little, too. “It shows in your writing. It’s as if real people actually speak through you.”

Will nodded, throat too narrow to let any more words out. Master Jenkins was more right than he knew: Will’s poetry was a fake coin, stamped with someone else’s face.

“Well,” the old teacher said, hands on his knees. “I’m not going to waste any more of your time. I just wanted to… see how you were.”

Will didn’t look at him. How he was? He was dying. The only thing missing from the whole scenario was Death himself.

“Thank you for the book,” Master Jenkins said, holding up the small volume. “I will treasure it.”

Nodding again, Will held out his hand to be shaken. Then he watched as the old man hobbled to the door and let himself out. When it clicked shut behind him and the room was quiet once more, Will wondered for a moment if he had just imagined the whole thing. But when he looked at his nightstand, _Metamorphoses_ was gone.

He let out a shuddering breath. Gone. And at once, he knew. Death was waiting for _him_. He was the author, after all. He had to decide when to end it. Like a player, he needed to deliver his last rhyming couplet and then fall on his own sword. _After this one last task, you’re free to leave._

Struggling to sit, he let his legs hang over the side of the bed and just breathed for a moment. Then he got up with a grunt and walked to his desk, grabbed his quill and took a new piece of paper from his stash. Just a few final words, his last message to the world. The magician’s goodbye. _Good friend, for Jesus’ sake forbear, to dig the dust enclosed here…_ A simple epitaph, for a grave that wouldn’t have a body in it.

He finished the lines and left the sheet on his desk, visible from the door. Then he tiptoed into the next room. There was a small bouquet on the nightstand, spring flowers gathered by a conscientious Susanna. Looking down into the bed, he reached out a hand and caressed Agnes’s sallow cheek. Did she know that he was there? Or indeed that he had been absent for most of their life together? Sometimes it seemed that she did. Sometimes her squirrel’s eyes were still as alert as they had once been. But she was an old woman now, crippled and imprisoned in a breathing statue which refused to live but couldn’t die.

A fate he refused to share.

Sighing, he padded down the stairs. No one was about, not even Susanna. She must have left after seeing Master Jenkins out, and so there was nobody to see Will leave. He didn’t even take his cloak – what was the point? Instead he just walked out onto the dew-dappled lawn and slunk through the gate. Down the curfew-quiet streets, away from the dying embers of his hearth, down towards the river. The light from a grief-swollen full moon glittered on the leaves of quietly murmuring trees, lighting his way.

When he reached the Avon, he peeled off his nightshirt. The letter would be his goodbye, but the nightshirt on the bank would be the proof. The only thing they would find to bury. The chilly April night licked at his skin as he exposed it inch by inch. Closing his eyes, he imagined Kit undressing him instead, warm hands soothing his goose-bumpy skin. His smile in the light of a single candle, his voice as he ironically recited Will’s latest masterpiece…

The water lapped at his feet. The same river that had taken his son would now take him. _I’m ending the fight._ Heat rose in his stomach, in his chest and face. _Ending the fight against decay, corruption and failure – by accepting the ultimate failure, accepting the decay. I’m giving up my right to fight, my will to try. I’ve created magic, flimsy and fragile magic that could be blown apart by a little gust of wind. Now I’m letting it all go._

Because Richard was right: everything had changed. London was no longer the same. Even if Will could go back, there would be nothing for him there. He would just walk the streets a ghost, the teeming capital a foreigner’s déjà-vu. There was the Curtain, there the burnt remains of the Globe, neighboured by the reconstruction. There was the churchyard where he’d seen Kit and Alexander together. There the abandoned Boar’s Head, whose hostess had died. Beyond it St Leonard’s church, Richard’s old lodgings, and the scruffy room where Kit had lived with Tom. The barges on the water. The stand where you could once buy the finest tobacco in the city. The brothels, the gentlemen’s furnishers, the printer’s shops. Memories at every street corner, spectres in every doorway.

But all the faces would be new. Will knew none of the popular names, none of the latest catchphrases. All the great actors of his generation were retired, dead or tied to their sickbeds: decrepit old men that none of these cocky young upstarts had even heard of, their feats forgotten in the dazzle of the new.

Time had conquered everything. Pope and pauper, they were all subject to that one king.

Teeth chattering with the cold, he waded into the Avon. _I’m at the top of the mountain now, staring down into the darkling valley. In a minute I will see it. Look at the minutes, quick, quick. They’re ebbing away, like the Thames, like the Avon._ His mind swirled as the icy cold lapped at his thighs. Breathing in, he steeled himself. _Just think of him. Soon, I will see him._

But just then, there was a bark behind him. “Stop!”


	26. 1593

The door to Will’s lodgings swung open and a storm cloud Kit barged in to fling himself on his bed. “So that’s it, I suppose,” he burst out, not one to bother with superfluous greetings.

Will smiled at his waspish lover, temporarily distracted by the welcome sight: despite his foul mood, Kit was unbearably cute – but Will had learnt never to say so. “I don’t suppose you’re here to work on little Eddie?” he teased. The play didn’t even have two scenes strung together yet, but they were already referring to it as some kind of love-child. It was actually a fitting metaphor, since the real Edward III was a sodomite’s son, and since working on it invariably led to other things – no doubt the reason why it took so long to complete.

Kit groaned and covered his face with a pillow. “What’s the point? It’s only a matter of time before the theatres are closed.”

Will sighed. “Yeah…” Yesterday’s play had been interrupted by shouts of the plague, the plague, and today’s play was cancelled because a few of the actors had caught it. Right now, they were just waiting for the authorities to shut it all down.

“We could write for the boy companies,” came the muffled suggestion, but Kit didn’t sound convinced. In fact, he sounded positively doleful.

“They don’t even exist anymore,” Will said.

Kit looked up from the pillow, unruly hair making Will smile again. “Of course they do,” he snapped. “They may not be as popular as in the eighties, and we may not see them much, but in the houses of nobles the practise has had no reason to stop. They can do what they like, remember?”

Will’s smile faded. “Yeah, about that… young Nick has been kind of jumpy lately.”

Kit’s demeanour darkened. “Oh, Will, don’t even go there.”

“But… I mean, what can we do? He’s afraid to go near the older actors.”

“Do?” Kit’s voice was harsh. “He’s no longer in the clutches of whatever remorseless fuck stole him from the streets, so everything’s just dandy. Okay?”

“But we should report it! To the–”

“The authorities?” Kit laughed mirthlessly. “Look, Will… they’re professionals. They’re invisible. The children are kept well hidden, underground somewhere, where they’re taught all the tricks of the trade. And before you ask, I’m not only talking about regular acting.”

Fierce nausea gripped Will’s innards. “So our trade really is as morally dubious as they say.”

Kit’s eyes looked like they belonged to an old man. “Our trade? It’s the world, Will. The destruction of innocence is a lucrative business in all walks of life. Always has been, always will be. But show two men kissing on stage, and you’ll be hanged.”

Will averted his eyes. After a brief silence he pointed out, “They do, though. Kiss. All the time.”

Kit rolled his eyes. “Yes, in fucking dresses.”

“But you’ve already shown it,” Will said.

“No.”

“Almost. In _Dido_ and, notoriously I might add, in _Edward_.”

“ _No_ ,” Kit repeated impatiently, thumping the mattress with his fist. “That’s not what I mean. At all. The institutionalised raping of boy servants is quite acceptable to fine society. So is an ancient power struggle starring some stupid king who let his heart cloud his mind. I’m talking about _this_. About what _we_ have. Where there’s room for laughter. For silliness. For real life.”

A strange feeling bloomed in Will’s chest and died down, unuttered. “Actually, I have an idea that I could use. This girl dresses up as a boy…”

“You already used that. Twice.”

“Yeah, well…” Will grinned and sat down beside Kit. “That’s what I always think when I begin a piece: get the hot young guy out of his stupid frock as soon as possible!”

“Hot? Have you replaced Alexander without telling me?”

Will ignored the remark. “This woman falls in love with the disguised girl…”

“And they do it in front of two thousand Londoners!” Kit exclaimed, slapping his thigh in childish glee.

Will laughed. “No. But she falls in love with a man–”

“Yawn.”

“You know I can’t be fully open with it. But he could be interested in her, without knowing her true identity.”

Kit propped up his head on his hand. “He courts her, thinking she’s a he?”

“Exactly.”

Kit smiled. “I like it… and when the girl is revealed, he loses interest?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Kit groaned and lay down again. “This country is a disgrace. And God is a wanker. You may quote me on that.”

Will smiled and stroked Kit’s hair. “I solemnly promise to show two boy actors in boy’s clothes kiss on stage before I die.”

“Hmh. You’ll be hanged.”

“So I’ll be hanged. I’ll wait until it doesn’t matter anymore. When I’m old and ugly and nobody loves me, I will show the truth on the English stage and take my punishment meekly.”

Kit pursed his lips. “Then it’ll never happen.”

“You don’t think I have it in me.”

Kit laughed and then glanced at him with an impish grin which was impossible to decipher. “Oh, you have it in you. But…” He stopped. Swallowed. “I’ll never… I mean… oh, fuck.” He covered his face.

“What?”

“Forget it.” Kit cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice had changed. “Anyway, it’s no use writing plays now.”

Will lay down, rummaging around a bit to accommodate his neck to Kit’s arm. “Good opportunity to finish _Hero and Leander_ , then.”

Kit made an exasperated noise. “I’m stuck.”

“You lack the experience to write about Hero’s first time,” Will said softly.

“Oh, I have the experience, don’t you worry.”

“Obviously not. She’s a stick figure and you know it.”

Kit scoffed. “Women are boring. How is that my fault?”

“You describe her clothes with more passion than her features. There isn’t even one word about her eyes or lips or anything.”

Kit shrugged. “So?”

“So who do you imagine your audience to be?”

“You. I already told you that.”

Will shook his head. “Leander is a veritable god, but she comes off as a dull puppet.”

Kit was needled. “So maybe I’ll use your wife for the transit parts of my poem.”

“Don’t drag her into this.”

“You’re the one who married her.”

“And I don’t regret that.”

Kit tutted. After a long pause he muttered, “Well, Leander is a work of art. An elaborately dressed goose for the masses to drool over. _I_ know better.”

“Oh… so what is that running down your chin?”

Kit boxed him on the arm. “I didn’t say I did a bad job of it. I moulded him on the best.”

The veiled compliment landed like an arrow in Will’s chest. “Well, at least you know how to scandalise the authorities…”

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Will jumped up and glanced pointedly at Kit. Snorting at his anxiety, Kit sat up with a stifled grunt and made for the table by the window. He picked up the quill and adopted a phoney writer’s pose, rolling his eyes at Will for insisting on the pretence. Will ignored his derision and sidled close to the door. Through the thick wood, he heard the whisper of heavy breathing. Laying his fingers on the cold handle, he turned it.

The door swung open on its whining hinges, revealing a drunken mess that he didn’t immediately recognise. “Oh, there you are…”

Will took a step back from the gust of beer-breath. Putting a hand to his nose, he recovered enough to squint at the visitor’s vaguely familiar features. “ _Dick_?”

“If I’d known…” Dick barged past Will into the room and stopped suddenly, swaying on his feet. “What the hell…?” He was looking at Kit, who smiled back tartly.

“Yes?” Will demanded. “What do you want?”

Dick turned around and glared at him darkly. “I want my father back.” Then he frowned and rubbed his face in apparent confusion. “No, no, that’s not it. I want her!”

Will was stunned. Her? He felt his mouth hang open, but no sounds came. A sob rose in Dick’s throat and tumbled out of his mouth. “I saw her… she’s _mine_ , Will.”

“I–”

“Fuck it. It’s too late. I know that. Too late. And Jacqueline isn’t… she’s not…” Dick fumbled on the air, but whatever he was searching for, he didn’t find it. For a moment he looked like he might laugh, or perhaps cry. Then his shoulders fell and he muttered, “It’s none of your business.”

“Quite right,” Will said, “so maybe you should–”

“I went home. To my father’s funeral.” Dick staggered a little and slumped against the wall. Then he sighed. “I’ve never known her. And yet her eyes…” He wiped his nose with his sleeve and stared down at the papers on the table beside him. A change came over his face, almost as if he became instantly sober. “ _Unfather’d fruit_ …” he whispered. Will suppressed an urge to snatch the poem from his sight. Dick looked up. “ _Unfather’d… hope of orphans…_ So you do understand? You do care?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You left her too.” Dick shook his head. “She has two fathers, and yet none at all.”

A warm wave washed through Will as he understood. “You’re talking about Susanna.”

Dick’s eyebrows knotted. “Of course.”

Will exchanged a look with Kit. Dick must be really drunk to bring up his bastard when someone else was listening. But at least he knew it was true, now. That Will hadn’t blackmailed him with a lie.

Dick picked up the sheet and read, his lips making miniature movements as he picked his way through the nascent verse. “Unfather’d.” He chuckled sadly. “Unplanted. Undone. Wonder boy does it again. No wonder Master Jenkins adored you so much.”

A jolt tore through Will. Adored? His heart thudded with sudden force against his ribs, as if making up for skipping a beat. A confused blush crept up his cheeks. “Master Jenkins didn’t adore me.”

“No? He let you put on a play. A raging success, as I remember.”

Will looked away. So he did remember.

Dick’s lips twisted a little. Then he shrugged. “Doesn’t matter any longer, does it? One way or the other, you steal everything that’s mine. That’s just the way it is.”

That did it. “ _I_ steal from _you_?” Will exploded. “Jesus… I pick up your discarded leftovers, the scraps of the poor souls that you’ve ruined, and then I nurse them back to bloody life, is what I do! And when they’ve recovered, you want them back, so you can kill them all over again.”

Dick’s eyes widened and his lips went pale, but he didn’t confront the accusation.

“I think you should leave.” Will grabbed hold of Dick’s arm. For a moment, it looked as if Dick was going to lunge on him – _and do what? Tie me to a tree again?_ – but then he let himself be led to the door.

On the threshold, he turned to look at Will, eyes dark like bottomless pits. “Oh, just one thing. I was meaning to ask you…” He glanced at Kit, at the papers by his elbow. “Do you still want to publish?”

Will stiffened in surprise. “Publish?”

“Yes.” Dick averted his gaze.

“Wh… why?”

Dick glanced at Kit again, as if fearful of having the moment documented. “I just wondered… any chance I might get to read some more of… what you’ve written?”

It took a while for Will to form the words, “Why should I trust you?”

Dick looked surprised. “Well… you shouldn’t, I suppose.” They stared at each other, each waiting for the other to speak. Between them was their childhood rivalry, the jilted fiancée, the blatant black-mailing, the secret daughter. How could they forget all that and behave like human beings? “Actually, I hear you’ve got an epic poem,” Dick said finally.

Will pursed his lips. “You’re better informed than my closest friends.”

Dick glanced at Kit again. Then he sighed. “Are you or aren’t you writing an epic poem?”

Will forced a smile. “You wouldn’t like it.”

“Is it a rip-off of someone else’s work?”

“Not… really.”

“So it’s raunchy.”

“Kind of.”

There was a brief silence, during which Dick no doubt remembered the latest London execution: a printer, accused of publishing seditious books. “Will you let me see it?” he asked.

Will raised an eyebrow. “So you can steal it?”

“Now why would I do that?”

“Because you’re a respectable Protestant printer and I’m the scum of the earth, so you’d rather put Robert Greene’s name on it?”

Dick swallowed visibly. He clearly hadn’t expected this much candour, especially not on the topic of religion. “You know, I…” He seemed to steel himself against what he was about to say. “I _am_ … sorry.”

Will stared at him. Dick seemed to be waiting for something. He was searching Will’s face – for an answering apology, perhaps? Or for absolution?

Will wavered. What was there to say? Sorry for what, exactly?

Dick shrugged, seemingly disappointed. “Anyway, if you’ve got something… I might like to print it. You’ve come a long way since your first attempts. There’s even talk about patronage.”

Will stiffened in surprise. He was lying, of course. Anything to get his way.

But then Will wondered. Patronage… If anything could change Dick’s mind, that would certainly be it. “Thanks…” he murmured, uncertain. And, as he held the door open, “I’ll think about it.”

The door closed, and Dick’s steps clomped down the stairs outside. Turning, Will raised his eyebrows at a grinning Kit.

“Yes… maybe it’s time,” Kit said softly.

Will was still reeling from the unexpectedness of Dick’s offer, but he found it in himself to croak a weak, “Time for what?”

But Kit just smiled, the rare glow of genuine happiness gilding his handsome face. “Maybe your stars are finally aligned, pup.”


	27. Chapter 27

“I’ve got news.”

Will looked up from his confused scribbles, almost relieved to be interrupted. Kit was lounging in the doorway, a lavish new cape slung over his shoulder. Will sighed inwardly at the sight, predicting a period of nonstop action and late, alcohol-drenched nights. Oh well, at least it was better than bottomless depression – or complete absence. “Good news or bad?”

Kit walked into the room and sat in a chair, trying to feign nonchalance like he always did when there was some emotion he wished to conceal. “Well… that depends on how you look at it. Both, I suppose.” He examined his ink-stained fingertips. “I’ve had John Lyly arrange a dinner at the earl of Oxford’s townhouse. Which will be tedious as hell – but hopefully productive.” He grinned.

“And will you go with me to this tedious dinner?” Will asked.

Kit pretended to be hurt. “Are you joking? Of course I will. You think I’d throw you into the wolf’s den to fend for yourself?”

Will shrugged. Kit had avoided company for weeks, nursing his melancholy in maudlin solitude or curling up in Will’s arms. But if Will so much as breathed a word about it, Kit might erupt in one of his tantrums. Better just to play along with whatever little scheme he had cooked up. “So when is this dinner?”

Kit bit his lip, an unruly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Tonight.”

“Christ, thanks for letting me know in time.” Will wiped his quill and put it away.

“Well…” Kit stood up. “The earl can be a bit… unpredictable.”

“Oh, the _earl_ can be unpredictable?”

Kit giggled and hugged Will from behind, biting his neck playfully. Will felt the usual prickles run down his body at the raspy touch of Kit’s unshaven chin, but then sudden dread filled him. “Maybe you shouldn’t come after all.”

“Don’t be silly. I can behave for a couple of hours.”

“I sincerely hope so.” Will rose, stretching his creaking limbs. “So, Oxford…” he yawned, rifling through his jewellery to find a suitable piece for fastening his cloak. Kit smirked at this uncommon display of vainness, but said nothing. To him, a healthy interest in one’s appearance was no flaw. Will held up a brooch to his shoulder and gave Kit an enquiring look. Kit nodded and Will inserted the pin. “Is he interested in my work?”

Kit avoided his eyes. “Oh… I’m not entirely sure. I think so.”

Will laughed resignedly. “Tell me again why we’re going?”

Kit gave him a mock frown. “That’s no attitude for a patron-hunter! You have to sell it to him, make him think that he loves what he’s hearing.” He took Will’s hand and pulled him towards the door. “Seriously, Will. I just arranged the meeting of a lifetime for you, and all you can do is sulk?”

***

The townhouse of Edward de Vere, seventeenth earl of Oxford, was magnificent to say the least. Drapes and paintings graced every wall, but its most stunning feature was the extensive collection of books: bibles of different origin, poetry, maps and astrology in a seemingly endless parade of leather-bound, gold-embossed volumes. Will found himself loitering by one bookcase, drooling over a beautiful copy of _Amores_ in the original Latin, until the servant in charge of their introduction hemmed pointedly and Will had to tear himself away.

“Welcome, dear friends,” Lyly greeted them as they stepped into a lavishly decorated dining-room. “I’m so pleased to meet you again, William. I hope you like peacock? Please have a seat. Oh, wine!” He clapped his hands. A door at the far end of the room opened and two boy servants came in, carrying silver trays laden with different kinds of drink. Behind them, an adult figure swathed in purple velvet appeared.

“Oxford,” Kit whispered quickly, and Will and he both bowed.

“Oh, please,” Oxford stopped in the doorway and motioned them to sit down with an elegant flourish of his bejewelled hand. “This is just an informal meal among equals.” He flashed a professional smile and then lingered just a moment too long in the doorway so that they could gaze their fill: as if Oxford’s elevated station wasn’t enough, he was also an exceedingly handsome man, with thick, dark hair and charming crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Convinced that he had made the proper impression, the earl strode forward, took both Will’s hands in his and told him in animated terms – which almost sounded genuine – how much he loved his work.

“Especially _Richard III_ – what a triumph! And I have some small hope of being able to entertain you in kind tonight. I have, as you may know, my own brand of actors.”

“Yes,” Kit cut in, his voice as airy and detached as Oxford’s. “We would be very much obliged to have the privilege of hearing them. It is such an honour just to be here.”

It was all Will could do not to stare: despite his humble origins, no different from Will’s own, Kit now came across as a simpering noble, complete with the posh accent and the minute gestures which separated the chaff from the bran. _He should have been the actor, not me._

Oxford took his place at the head of the table and bade them help themselves to the hors d’oeuvres. Kit leaned over and whispered in Will’s ear, “Eat until you’re absolutely stuffed, because you’ll never taste food like this again. But go easy on the liquor, okay? And whatever happens, don’t make a sign that you find anything strange. And I mean anything.”

Will didn’t frown, didn’t nod, just met Kit’s eyes briefly in answer. He was nothing if not discreet. There was the tiniest hint of a smile on Kit’s lips and then they broke off their contact.

Kit was soon proven right. The dishes that were carried in resembled nothing Will had ever seen on a plate. They were truly magnificent. Following his instructions, Will gorged himself, but only sipped at the wine. And when he caught a glimpse of Oxford fondling the buttocks of one small boy who was serving him quail’s eggs, he didn’t wince, didn’t meet anyone’s gaze, but only smiled and continued chewing on his peacock as though nothing out of the ordinary was taking place.

“So, tell me, Goodman Shakespeare,” Oxford beamed at him. “How did you come up with the idea for _Richard III_?”

“Oh, um… well, reality, really.”

“Hah!” Oxford clapped his hands. “Very witty. Well, yes, when it was staged at Whitehall I’m sure many a soul in the audience could see themselves in him.”

“Apart from the fact that he locked up two boys in the Tower and murdered them,” Will smiled indulgently.

Oxford shot him a narrow-eyed glance. “Apart from that. Yes. Of course. What I didn’t find convincing though, was the scene where he wooed and won the Lady Anne.”

“I’m sorry it wasn’t to your liking,” Will replied quickly.

“Yes, well, never mind. That was such a small part of it anyway, wasn’t it? He only needed a wife to… well, to…”

“As a cover,” Will offered.

Oxford looked at him sharply, then forced a smile. “Quite.”

All the while, boy servants were carrying trays to and from the room. Sugar plums doused in brandy followed upon the meats. “I like to call them page boys’ balls,” Oxford laughed and let one plum linger on his quivering tongue. Will’s mask almost failed him, but he was interrupted by a howl from outside. He started, and Oxford smiled. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s just the poor bastards in Bedlam hospital. Make quite a racket sometimes.”

Will felt faint, a cold sweat covering his entire body at the thought of the incarcerated lunatics, just a stone’s throw away. He passed this way every day, and had got used to the screams, but now it was as if he heard the noise for the first time.

“Anyway, I hope you’ll like my little homage.”

“Homage?”

“Yes, I’ve devised a small play… well, rather an interlude of sorts… that my little goslings will perform for you after dinner.”

“Your… goslings?”

“Yes, my beautiful birds,” Oxford smiled. “I don’t let them sing to just anyone, you know.”

“I’m very flattered…”

“Yes, well… you’d make an excellent poet if you just laid aside that awful acting business and committed yourself fulltime to the art of writing.”

“It pays the rent,” Will mumbled.

“And the rent-boys,” Oxford exclaimed with a loud laugh.

Will’s eyes almost flitted towards Kit’s in search of desperate support, but he felt rather than saw Kit’s body language telling him not to. So he just laughed. “Right.”

“Shall we move into the theatre room, then?”

Following their host, they made themselves comfortable in richly embroidered chairs which were placed before a makeshift stage. Behind a couple of covered screens, the actors were preparing. Oxford clapped his hands. “You may begin, my beauties.”

“But the lights,” a tender voice called out from behind one of the screens. The hairs on the back of Will’s neck stood up. There was something familiar about that voice, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. The feeling was too fleeting.

“Oh, I’m sorry, my little ones,” Oxford exclaimed. “A torch, a torch, my earldom for a torch!” He grinned at Will, who smiled back, if a bit rigidly. The requested lights were carried into the room and then a hush descended on the spectators. The performance was about to begin.

A boy walked out and stood in the middle of the floor. Will didn’t immediately register who he was, dressed in breeches as he was. Then, with a tiny shock in his chest, he saw. It was Christopher. Christopher! His heart launched into a frantic pace, sucking at his chest, making his ribs quiver. His blood stung in his veins like a corrosive liquid. But Kit’s hand on his arm reminded him to act natural. _Whatever happens_ , he had said.

His thoughts were interrupted as Christopher began to sing. Will’s breath caught in his throat at the sound. The sheer otherworldly beauty of the boy’s voice almost eclipsed Will’s horror. Christopher’s diaphragm tensed and his lips moved in time with the music, but it was hard to believe that the heavenly melody did indeed emanate from the skinny youth. Will became aware of Oxford watching him, a meaningful smile tugging at his lips. “Luscious, isn’t he?”

Will fought to keep down the opulent meal he had just ingested. “Very pretty,” he agreed. Didn’t Oxford know that Christopher had been a part of Will’s company? Perhaps he had never been to the playhouse, but spent all his time at court. And by the time they performed at Whitehall, Christopher had already disappeared.

To this very house.

Unaware of Will’s thoughts, Oxford smirked at him. “I offer him to you in all friendship.”

“Oh… you mean…?”

“You may stay as long as you please tonight, and he’ll keep you company.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course, I’d love to,” Will’s mouth formed the words. “So what do you want in return?”

“Oh, nothing,” the earl laughed. “Nothing at all. I have all that I need. Just… now that the playhouses are closed, you’ll be writing poetry, am I right?”

“Uh… yeah, I…” Will was reeling.

“Well, don’t dedicate it to that no-good Southampton.” Oxford grinned, but the expression had no mirth in it.

“S…Southampton?” Will repeated, mind still on Christopher.

“Yes. I know he’s interested.” He leaned closer. “Wouldn’t want the name of that snotty whelp on the cover, would you? When someone like me can offer you what you really want, eh?”

“Er…”

Oxford patted his knee. “Good boy.”

***

An hour later, Will was shown to a room together with Kit and told that the boy would be with them shortly. When Will finally spoke, his voice sounded strange to his own ears, like stone grating against stone. “What. The fuck.”

Kit’s jaw was tense, but when he spoke, he didn’t sound surprised. “I told you the boy companies still exist.”

“But I had no idea…”

“… it was that bad?”

Will shook his head, covered his burning face with cold hands. “What now?”

Kit was unnaturally calm. “In about ten minutes, he’ll be here. And they’ll expect us to be at it for at least an hour. Which works in our favour.”

“You mean to say that that man… has _been_ … with Christopher?”

“I don’t think there’s any chance that he hasn’t.”

Will groaned. “How do you know?”

“I just know. From looking at him. Anyway, he’ll probably have got used to it by now.”

Will looked up, certain that Kit was making some kind of sick joke. “Don’t say that.” 

Kit shrugged, but at that moment the door opened again and Christopher was shoved through it. He stood there, staring at the two guests as though he had never seen them before in his life, until Will fell to his knees and threw his arms around the boy. When he pulled away, Nick’s eyes were glazed over, and Will was suddenly reminded of the actor playing Ganymede in Kit’s Dido. He had had that exact same look on his face: distant, somehow. Struck by the strange coincidence, he glanced at Kit, who said, softly as if afraid to ruin the moment, “We need to go now if we’re to have chance.”

Will nodded, only barely keeping together, and stood up. But Christopher took a step back and shook his head. “No.”

Will stared at him. “What do you mean, no? Come on!”

“I can’t leave.”

“You must be from your senses. Does he drug you as well?”

“Probably,” Kit muttered. 

He grabbed Christopher’s arm and pulled him towards the window, but just as he was about to open it, Christopher recoiled and cried out, “I like what he does to me!”

Will was stunned speechless with horror, but Kit didn’t even seem to hear him. He just opened the latch, letting a gentle breeze into the room. Will felt nauseous. “You’re not suggesting…”

“The alternative is to run straight into the arms of Oxford’s guards. Or indeed, Christopher gets to stay here and enjoy all the perks of being Oxford’s flavour of the month.”

Will shivered. “The window it is. But how do we…?”

“The sheets,” Kit replied at once, his voice strangely calm. He had already taken out his knife and was ripping the fabric to shreds, twisting it and knotting the pieces together to create a long white rope. “It’s too short, we must use the hangings as well.” He went to work on the velvet drapes surrounding the bed where Oxford thought they were even now enjoying his protégée. Will scrambled to help, but his hands were cramping with rising panic.

“Will it even hold?” he whispered.

Kit shrugged. “I hope so.”

“Haven’t you done this before?”

Kit hesitated, a wan smile on his lips. “Not since university.” He tugged at the knots to see if they held fast, but of course it was impossible to tell. “Well… that’s it, then.” He tied the end of the long rope to the sturdy bedpost and threw the other end out of the window. Then he turned to Christopher. “You first. You’re the lightest of us, and you have to make it. I can survive even if I’m caught. I’m an ugly old fuck – he won’t be tempted to rape me.”

Christopher blanched at this and nodded almost imperceptibly, but when he clambered onto the ledge and looked down, he almost fell backwards. “It doesn’t reach the ground!”

“Take it easy,” Kit said softly and put an arm around Christopher’s shoulders. The boy didn’t flinch. “Just swing one leg over the edge.”

The boy obeyed him, perhaps only because of the calm way he said it, or perhaps because this was the voice of Merlin the poet, whose words were not to be disbelieved. “And then?” he whimpered, crouched in the dark square of the window, trying to be brave for his saviour.

“Grab the rope.”

Christopher duly grabbed it, steadying himself with his free hand on the window frame.

“Now…” Kit stared into his eyes. “You’re possessed of supernatural strength. You know that, right?”

Christopher nodded, his wide eyes snagged on Kit’s.

“Then this will be very easy. Simply hold on to the rope, lean out with your upper body and walk down the wall.”

“Walk down the wall…” Christopher repeated breathlessly.

“Yes. Easy as that.” Kit smiled. Christopher nodded and rose to his feet. Holding the rope with both hands, he stepped out of the window and onto the wall. “And now you move your feet, down, down, and follow with your hands, one inch at a time. And when you reach the ground, you go fetch the horses by the gate. Alright?”

Christopher nodded, and then his head slowly disappeared below the windowsill. The bedpost creaked softly, but didn’t budge. The knots in the sheets tightened but held. Will let out a long, shuddering breath. “Will he survive the jump at the bottom?” he whispered.

“That remains to be seen.”

Just then, steps neared the door from the corridor outside. Will’s eyes widened in alarm, took in the state of the room, the sheet-rope hanging out of the window, Christopher nowhere to be seen, and the two of them standing in the middle of the carnage, about to be caught red-handed. Without thinking, he grabbed Kit, shoved him against the door and made loud panting noises as he thrust his body against Kit’s in a parody so lifelike that the wooden doorframe squeaked. The steps outside stopped and there was the tiniest of chuckles. After a couple of eternal moments, the feet tiptoed away again. Will went on pretending until he was sure that the eavesdropper was well and gone. Then he let go of Kit and slid to the floor, wiping panicky sweat from his brow with a trembling hand. Kit watched him smilingly. “Lord, but you’re a man’s man, aren’t you?”

“Fuck off. What was I supposed to do?”

“I’m not complaining. I’d almost let you.”

Will allowed himself a short, despairing laugh, but then he hurried to the open window to see how far Christopher had come. His dark head was barely visible, far far down the wall where he seemed to be hesitating. He was at the end of the rope. _Jump_ , Will said in his mind. _Anything is better than to be left hanging_.

And Christopher jumped. There was the muffled sound of a cry as he hit the ground. For an agonising moment, Will couldn’t see him moving. But then the small figure down there got to its feet, looked up and waved. “He made it!”

“Your turn, then.”

“Why not you?”

“Because I’m more used to getting out of scrapes alive. If somebody should come…”

“Please go,” Will insisted. “If I’m caught, I’ll play dumb.”

“Too late for that, my friend. Oxford is blinded by your wit. Go on, climb out.”

Knowing he wouldn’t win this one and loath to lose more time, Will climbed onto the ledge like Christopher had done, telling himself that if a child could do it, so could he. As he stepped outside and searched for a foothold that wasn’t there, the knots in the rope tightened further. Maybe they even slipped a little – or his eyesight fooled him. He held the twisted sheets with hands grown strong with desperation, trying to forget the cramps he suffered from. His feet nudged downwards, close to the rough stones, and his hands followed suit, inching their way down the rope as his body sank into the chilly dusk. _I’m hanging in the air_ , his mind was repeating over and over again. _There’s nothing between me and the ground but yards and yards of thin air._ But he mustn’t think of that. Staring at the wall, pretending that it was a road, he managed to keep from collapsing into panic as he actually walked, foot beneath foot, down the wall of the earl’s house.

When he had come halfway, the rope tautened and shook. Looking up, he saw Kit already coming out of the window. With a twinge in his heart, Will realised that someone must be at the door, rattling the locks in impatience, perhaps growing suspicious. But would the makeshift rope hold them both? He picked up speed, clambering downwards faster than he really dared, almost stumbling over the occasional stone jutting out from the wall, until he reached the end of the rope. He understood now why Christopher had hesitated. The ground wasn’t even visible from here. It was impossible to judge how far he had to jump. Debating stupidly with himself even though there was no choice, he felt the rope shudder as Kit approached from above. “Jump, Will!” he called. “They’re coming.”

 _I can’t_ , Will tried to say, but no sound escaped his throat. At that moment, the sheet he was holding on to suddenly ripped in two and he lost contact with the wall. Next thing he knew, he was hurtling towards the ground. With a sickening twist of his shoulder, he landed on a grassy patch and had the wits to roll over to one side before Kit came tumbling after him. In moments, Kit was over him, his hands searching his body, his breath coming in gasps. 

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Will panted, but as he leaned on his hand to stand up, his arm buckled under him and he almost screamed. Somehow, Kit still managed to get him onto his feet and they ran down the road to where Christopher was waiting for them on one of the horses they had hired for the night. Kit mounted and hoisted Will up in front of him, and Christopher dug his heels into the sides of his steed. As they galloped down the road towards the safe anonymity of the city, they could see torches coming down the hill and hear voices raised in dismay. Relief and fear flooding him in equal measure, Will heard the first few peals of the curfew bell echo through the falling darkness. He held on to the horse’s mane with his left hand while the twilit suburbs of Shoreditch rushed past them on all sides. Down by the wall, the gates were already beginning to close.

“Faster!” Kit shouted at Christopher, and then he leaned forward on the horse, bringing Will down with him to lie against the warm and moving muscle underneath as they sped towards the swiftly receding safety of that needle’s eye. Just as the lock was about to click, Kit reined in the horse and slid down onto the ground in a single catlike bound. His hand shot into the minute crack of the doors and yanked, hard. The surprised guard stumbled and the door slipped out of his grasp.

“Thanks,” Kit flashed him a grin and led his charge over the magical threshold.


	28. Chapter 28

After delivering Christopher to old Burbage, Kit didn’t take Will to his lodgings. Instead, he gently nudged the horse towards Silver Street. Delirious with pain, Will didn’t realise that he wasn’t going home until they stopped outside a house he didn’t recognise. When he saw the sign, he went cold. “No… please don’t make me.”

Kit jumped off the horse with a stony expression on his face. “You’ll never write again.”

“I never did,” Will tried to joke.

“Alright,” Kit said in a harsh voice. “You’ll never be on your hands and knees again. Okay?”

Will bit his lip. He knew he had to do this. His shoulder was aching and throbbing with an insistent pain that was aggravated for each time he bounced on his horse. But to visit a bonesetter? The very thought made his blood run cold. “If I can just make it to Warwickshire, we can visit my aunt,” he tried weakly, but Kit wouldn’t have it. He grabbed the reins and led his horse to the fence to tie it there.

“Christopher dared to flee from his captor. Will you be more of a wimp than the boy?”

“That’s so unfair…”

“So I’m unfair. Think I care? You’re going.”

Will admitted defeat and tried to vault off the horse’s back, but he couldn’t weigh on his right arm and almost fell to the ground. How on earth had he managed to get on it in the first place? Had he been so panicked at the thought of his pursuers that he hadn’t felt the pain? The recent memory was already dimming.

“I can’t…” he whispered, too tired to feel any shame.

“I’ve got you,” Kit said and held up his hands. Will shook his head. “Yes, come on. Lean back on your good arm and then swing your leg over… exactly, just like that, now… that’s it, come to me…”

Will let himself slide slowly into Kit’s arms. His shoulder knocked against the horse’s flank and he moaned, blackness covering his eyes. At the edge of consciousness, he felt his feet touch the ground and strove to keep his balance, to stand on his own. Kit released him carefully and he opened his eyes to see the twilight world around him pulse with the aftermath of excruciating pain. Kit ducked to knock on the low door. Breathing heavily, all Will could do was watch as it opened and an elderly man looked out. Engulfed by yet another flare of agony, Will didn’t hear the exchange between Kit and the bonesetter. He only knew that he was being shuffled over the threshold and laid on something hard, like a table. A gravelly, wheezing voice asked him something, but Kit answered in his stead. Such an old man… how was he supposed to alleviate the pain? He didn’t look strong enough to lift a half-filled spoon to his lips.

Will had barely thought it when a strong hand seized his elbow and pulled. An otherworldly scream ripped through him, and he almost lost consciousness. In a blur of pain and panic, he heard himself sobbing. There was only one thing that held him together, something warm and steady enveloping his other hand, like the firm grip of sanity that refused to let go.

And then, just when it couldn’t get worse, there was a sudden yank. He howled, convinced that his arm had come off. But as he blinked and gasped, the red horror slowly receded, like the tide pulling back and revealing the pebbly shores of the Thames. It crept back into the cave of his shoulder and huddled there, a humming ache all that remained.

He opened his eyes fully. There were cooling tears on his temples and a small, humdrum pain in his cheek where he had bitten himself. “Jesus,” he breathed, amazed that he was still alive.

“Welcome back,” Kit murmured and squeezed his hand.

While Will’s arm was bound in a sling, Kit paid the bonesetter and then led Will outside to their horses. One look, and Will shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Okay. They can stay here overnight. We’ll walk.”

Overcome by retroactive shock, Will slumped against Kit. “He wanted to be my patron,” he mumbled, confused. “Oxford. He didn’t want me to go to Southampton…”

Kit said nothing, just laid an arm around him as they moved, silent like alley cats, through the deepening darkness. The night was still and peaceful around them. No ruckus, no pursuers.

“But I don’t want him,” Will whispered.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Kit said, voice hard.

“But you saw!” Will exclaimed, only to win a stern glance from Kit that said _shut the fuck up until we’re inside._ But he couldn’t keep it in. Just couldn’t. “I don’t understand why Christopher wanted to stay,” he said, battling the memory-image of Oxford touching his servants. Kit’s half-shadowed face seemed to stiffen slightly. “I mean, how could he defend the earl?”

“How else was he to survive?” Kit said it so softly that he hardly seemed to speak at all – as if his voice were only made up of the faint light of the moon. “He had to accept his situation, Will. Settle for his new life. Decide to like it.”

Will was aghast. “To like it? And since when are you the expert on such–”

He froze. A moment passed. His breath hesitated in his lungs.

Then sudden comprehension coursed through him like an icy river. He looked away, and his throat tightened. He didn’t want to know. He just wanted the words unsaid. But they were out there now. Even though they weren’t written, they might as well have been hewn in stone. Kit now knew that he knew, and the unspoken horror grew between them like a bubo.

“You can ask,” Kit whispered after a while. His face resembled a death mask, bluish moonlight tracing the outlines, his eyes mere dark hollows.

Will didn’t want to ask, but when the silence became unbearable he whispered, “How old were you?”

“Fourteen.” Kit wanted to say more, Will could sense it, but his voice wavered and died. Will shuddered. The enormity of what his cherished one had lived through weighted down his tongue with lead. There was nothing to say.

Kit stopped just at the corner of Will’s street and turned to face him. “They destroy you,” he whispered. “When he said… when Christopher… it was that destruction talking. Not his heart. But sometimes it can be… difficult to know the difference.”

“Kit…”

“And as you know, I am also a destroyed person. A walking, talking mess. Because of _him. He_ made me like this.”

“‘This’?” Will wondered.

Kit made a gesture, encompassing the two of them. “This.”

Will shook with a sudden, cold rage. “If anyone made you this way, God did.”

Kit looked away. “I’m not berating you. Only the sin.” With that, he started up the street towards Will’s door.

“The sin?” Will hurried to catch up. “This is not a sin.”

“Really?” Kit scoffed. “And when did you go to the seminary?”

Will stared at him. Kit’s movements were tense as he groped in Will’s sleeve for his key and fumbled the door open. Once they were safely inside his room, Will said in a hissing whisper, “What _he_ did, that’s the sin! He took advantage of your youth and your confusion and probably your eagerness to learn.”

“And he gave me this… disease.” Kit’s face was dark with self-loathing. It pierced Will’s heart to see it. The confidence that was Kit’s trademark had vanished as though it had never existed. His very voice was a shadow.

“What disease?” Will insisted. “To experience paradise with your soul mate?”

Kit snorted without mirth. “It’s wrong.”

“What?”

“It’s not normal,” Kit said. “And…” He broke off, and his face went rigid with anguish. “And I wrote for one of those companies… I didn’t know, I–”

“Exactly, you didn’t know,” Will said, remembering the beginning of _Dido_ , with the boy Ganymede sitting on Jove’s knee. He hadn’t realised the situation was taken from real fucking life. Stepping up to Kit, he snaked his arms around him, wishing he could protect the boy he had once been.

But Kit squirmed out of his embrace. “And I’m destroying your marriage.”

Will gaped. “ _I’m_ destroying my marriage. No, I’m not even doing that. I’m living a life _apart from_ my marriage.” He fumbled to light a couple of candles, but the sling made it too difficult and Kit took over the task.

As the flames leapt up, he muttered, “Sex is for procreation.”

Will couldn’t help but laugh, a barking sound that didn’t sound like him. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this! Not from you. Children are a consequence of sex, yes, but not its only function.”

“No? The sodomy laws seem to think so.”

“Yes, but we don’t need to take that into account.” Will grabbed Kit’s elbow and gasped as his shoulder throbbed with pain. “What’s the matter with you? This isn’t you.”

Kit walked away a few steps, beyond the reach of the candles. “Do you think I want to do this?”

Will’s breath caught in his throat. A pain that was far worse than the ache in his shoulder flared in his chest. “I… sincerely hope so…”

Kit conceded with a moan, “Okay, so I do. But I wouldn’t… if _he_ hadn’t destroyed me.”

“He didn’t, damn you!” Will shouted, his heart beating furiously. Remembering the neighbours, Will added in a softer voice, “It’s all in motivation.”

Kit snorted, and his back shook. “That’s a playwright’s phoney rationalisation.”

“It’s true, even offstage. The act itself isn’t good or bad, only the reason behind it, and the way it’s received. You know it is. If I were to–”

Will stopped. He could hear Kit breathing, and when he spoke, his voice was dark. “What, you want power over me? Like him?”

“I never…” Will began, then shook his head. “Is that even possible?”

“You’d be surprised.”

Will’s heart stood still in his chest. “But you’ve… how did you put it? ‘Been a wife hundreds of times’?”

Kit breathed in shallow gasps, chest visibly heaving. “So I lied.” His voice barely carried. “Don’t you know by now that it’s second nature to me?”

“Nobody ever…?”

“Only him.”

Will paused, unsure of what was the right thing to say. The air between them was throbbing with anxiety. “But by now, surely… I mean… with me… you might enjoy it.”

“That’s the worst part,” Kit gasped, as if stabbed. “Actually… starting to… _feel…_ before your time… before you’ve decided for yourself… like being born too early…”

A warm pulse bled into Will’s chest as he understood. “ _Sent before my time into the world, rudely stamped…_ That’s why you loved Richard III so much.”

Kit managed a small laugh. “And he’s a monster!”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“Love the sinner, hate the sin?” Kit’s voice painted a picture of despair in the dusk. “But who can do that, in truth?”

“That’s the difference between what _he_ did and what I want to do. He didn’t make you this way. He just took advantage of what was already there.”

Kit turned to him with the terror-stricken demeanour of a drowning man, and the words, when they came, were no surprise. “Tell me why he didn’t.” He was pleading, and Will was silent for a long time, afraid to say the wrong thing.

Finally, he mumbled, “When you seduced me, I thought that was the case. I thought you…” He hesitated.

“… forwarded the curse,” Kit sighed.

“Yes. Something like that. But the capacity to feel this was within me long before I met you. I just didn’t understand it.”

“The capacity.” Kit smiled tentatively. “You make it sound so pretty.”

“Well, that’s my job.”

Kit covered his face with his hands. “You could also call it hereditary sin.” His voice betrayed both his anguish and his flickering hope. “I inherited it from him, and you’ve inherited it from me. But at any point, we can choose between sinning and not sinning. And I always choose the sin.”

Will shook his head. “Have you ever met a priest who actually believed that? Our whole society is based on the assumption that some people are naturally bad. Nothing to be done. Free will doesn’t enter into it.”

Kit nodded. “ _Richard III_ again.”

“Exactly.” Will breathed in. “So…” His voice was light, almost non-existent. “You’ll let me?”

For a long time, Kit was silent. Then he attempted a shrug. “A whore, a whore, my kingdom…” He ran out of air. “Why not?”

Will didn’t dare breathe. Was he saying yes, or had he misunderstood?

Kit laughed softly, trying for his usual sarcasm. “You’re afraid to do it?” When Will didn’t reply at once, Kit got down on his knees on the floor, dutiful like a prostitute. “Well, come on. Let’s get it over with.”

Will looked down at him in dismay. This wasn’t at all what he had in mind. “Get it over with?”

“Yes. This is what you want, isn’t it?” There was a slight tremor in Kit’s voice, and Will’s chest constricted at the sound.

“Not like that,” he said. “I want to see your face.”

Kit looked up at him, smiled mockingly. “Careful, Will, you’re getting sentimental.”

“So I’m getting sentimental. There are worse fates.” Will reached down with his uninjured arm and took Kit’s hand, pulled him up. Kit dropped his gaze, almost stumbled. Will could feel trembles in his hand, but when he led him towards the bed, Kit followed, meek like a lamb. “Lie down.” It was worded like an order, but he made his voice softer than thistledown. Kit swallowed audibly and crawled into the sheets, clumsy with fear. Will sat down beside him and stroked his hair, his arm.

“So do it,” Kit forced out.

“We have time,” Will whispered. And then he just leaned close – as close as his sling and the pain allowed – and waited for Kit’s breathing to slow down, for his muscles to relax. He kissed Kit’s forehead, his temples, his cheek. Stroked a thumb across his lips, followed the faint line up to his nose. Slipped a hand underneath his doublet and pulled at his shirt, fingertips teasing up goose bumps on Kit’s burning skin.

And then finally, he tugged at the lacing of his codpiece. Kit seemed to be holding his breath. It took longer than usual to untie the points since he was only using one hand. When he could finally pull down Kit’s hose, Will placed what he hoped was a soothing hand on his hip. Kit had closed his eyes under his ministrations, and his body was tying itself into frightened knots despite Will’s gentleness. It was closing itself to the memory, not yet aware what this could be, only remembering the terror of his youth. Will mustn’t botch this, or he would only reinforce the trauma.

Of course, his aching arm would put a stop to being rough even if he had wanted to, but Kit didn’t seem to realise. Will searched his mind for something familiar to help him relax, and he soon lighted on an old sonnet. He wondered if Kit would still remember – if he would think him silly for quoting it.

Well, no matter. Better to make him scoff than to scare him. Leaning over him, Will whispered the first lines even as he let his good hand slide between Kit’s naked legs. “ _If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine…_ ”

Kit opened his eyes, and the faintest trace of a smile graced his lips. It was enough.

“ _The gentle sum is this_ ,” Will went on, moving his fingers further back. “ _My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand, to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss._ ”

He bent down and touched his mouth to the smooth suede of Kit’s cock. “ _Good pilgrim_ ,” Kit gasped, “ _you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this_.”

There was a small jolt in Will’s heart. He remembered! “ _For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss._ ” Will reached underneath the pillow and dipped the fingers of his left hand into the little jar he had there. He could feel the heat radiate from Kit’s body as he ghosted over the backs of his thighs, nearing his goal infinitely slowly. “ _Then let lips do what hands do: they pray. Grant thou, lest faith turn to despair._ ”

Kit nodded almost imperceptibly, the words seeming to help him overcome some of the fear. “ _Saints do not move, though grant for prayer’s sake_ ,” he whispered. He was still looking hesitant, but he drew his knees up and gazed at Will, dark eyes shining. When Will’s fingers found the hot centre down there, Kit drew a hissing breath. Will circled the tight opening, gently, so gently. His fingertips slipped in the fat, slid over the clenching hole. Awed by the feeling, by being allowed, he rested his head on Kit’s chest and breathed raggedly while he slowly pushed one finger inside.

It was hot.

It was tight.

It was him.

Oh God, he was _inside him_.

Kit threw his head back into the pillow and made a choked noise in his throat. Pleasure? Or just pain? Will held his breath, waited until Kit’s eyes fluttered open. His lashes were dewed, but he wasn’t saying no. His lips had parted, ruddy and damp, and his golden brown irises looked cloudy. Pulling out and reaching for the jar again, Will coated his cock with as much of the fat as he could. His movements were clumsy, but Kit didn’t laugh – just lay there like a latter day Endymion, watching. Remembering the sonnet, Will whispered, “ _Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take_.”

But he didn’t have to take anything. When he held himself up on one hand and leaned over him, Kit reached between them and grabbed hold of him. For a moment, they just looked at each other: Will balanced on his good hand, Kit holding his cock in something akin to reverence. And then Kit guided the tip between his legs. With his handicap, Will could hardly move, but Kit lifted his hips to take him in, and the snug heat slid over Will’s cock like lips, sucking him in, hugging tight. Disoriented, Will lost his balance, and in the jarring motion when he caught himself on his good elbow, he buried himself to the hilt. Kit cried out, and Will made to draw out, but Kit grabbed his arms and held him. Again, they just stayed like that, Will propped up on his knees and one trembling arm, his cock caught in a death grip.

And then before he knew it, Kit started writhing, raising and lowering his hips to take Will deeper. Will could barely move at all – could only whimper as every heartbeat brought him closer to his cherished, precious friend.

_Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged._

And just as he heard the first few drops of rain on the window, he nudged that secret something inside, the place that made Kit’s hips lock and his body lift from the mattress. Head thrashing, he clenched his fists in Will’s hair. “I’m… I’m…”

And then the glittery tribute pulsed out of him, onto Will’s stomach, and a sharp cry scarred the velvet night.

***

Afterwards, Kit lay huddled in the blankets, smoking his pipe for a long time without saying a word. Outside their little haven, the rain fell in sheets. When Kit finally did speak, his voice was light. “If you knocked me up, I’ll make you marry me.”

“I hope I did then.”

Kit cocked an eyebrow. “You’re adding bigamy to your list of offences?”

Will smiled tentatively. “Why not? If the theory is right, I just made a woman out of you.”

Kit made a derogatory gesture towards his newly dried face. “Well, if this isn’t proof enough…”

Will chuckled, a warm, cosy feeling enveloping him whole. It was the end of a crazy, crazy night, but all he could feel was an overwhelming inner peace. “God gave us tear-ducts. It would be ungrateful not to use them once in a while.”

“God. Phaugh! He’s regretting every body part he ever gave us.”

Will gave him a teasing look. “And yet you named him several times towards the end.”

Kit grabbed a pillow tossed it in Will’s face. “It was a sinner’s urgent plea.”

“For an atheist, you’re terribly concerned with what is sinful.”

“Just another name for the joys of life.”

Will smiled in relief. Kit was back to his old self again.

“Besides, I think God doesn’t approve of me, and so I don’t feel the need to approve of him.” He was silent for a while, and then he mumbled, “But then again, He also created you. So He doesn’t always fuck up.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he looked away, a blush spreading in his face despite the chill of the room. Will cleared his throat and shifted beneath the blankets. But then Kit turned to him again, his face open and childish and beautiful beyond anything Will had ever seen. When he spoke, his voice was the mere wisp of a sound. “You’re going to hate this,” he prefaced. “Or laugh at me. But…” He stopped to breathe, to gather his courage. “I’m in love with you, Will.”

Will froze. Stared into those hypnotising eyes, that unique golden colour. In love? His whole upbringing rebelled against the words. They didn’t make sense. Loving someone was one thing, but _being_ in love… that was just possible when one of the two was a woman.

Only… when Kit said it, it did make sense. In the secrecy of this room, in the greyness of predawn, with just the two of them present to hear it, it made perfect sense.

Will breathed in. “If it’s something you can be,” he replied slowly, “Then… I am too.”

For a moment, his words bloomed in Kit’s eyes like the first dandelions of spring. Then his usual mocking grin took their place. “Puppy…” he began, when suddenly the sound of heavy footsteps reached them from the stairs outside. A moment passed. They looked at each other. Gauged the direction of the steps. They were heading upwards, towards the top floor. Will’s floor.

Springing from the bed, Kit swore under his breath. “Don’t say anything, okay?” he hissed. “Not a word. Let me do the talking.” He snatched his clothes just in time to pull his shirt over his head before the door slammed open. Will froze, body suddenly as cold as the bright gaze that shone out of the dusk.

Poley.

The spy stepped inside gingerly, as if afraid to sully his boots on Will’s filthy floor. Behind him, a slighter man hovered like a suspicious raven. “We have to stop meeting like this,” Poley flashed his frosty smile at Kit.

Kit fumbled for a riposte, but before he could find one, Poley resumed in his deathlike voice, “We’re having a meeting. At court. I’d like you to come. For some reason, you gave us the slip yesterday.”

Kit tensed. He glanced at Will, as if begging for help. “I thought we were supposed to meet tomorrow,” he said, obviously trying to buy time.

“Thursday night,” Poley shot back sternly. “It’s always Thursday night.”

“Oh …” Kit looked at Will again, eyes suddenly sad.

“But this time, you won’t forget. You’ll come with us immediately. Won’t you?”

Kit swayed a little. “Of course.”

Will breathed in to speak, but nothing came to his lips. Tongue as useless as his own Lavinia’s, he could just stare as Kit and his captors disappeared, shadows bleeding into darker shadows outside his door.

And in his heart was the echo of those impossible words: _I’m in love with you, Will._


	29. Chapter 29

“It’s finished.” Richard handed him the poem and Will unrolled it. The page was filled from top to bottom with Cuthbert Burbage’s careful, clerk-like hand – an adequate stand-in for Kit’s in matters of the quill. Less so in others.

“Perfect,” Will mumbled. “Tell him thanks.”

“So you’ve got a printer, then?”

Will sighed and gazed out over the bustling street. “Dick Field.”

Richard’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought you knew not to take his promises at face value?”

“He’s already registered it.”

“Huh. Well, pigs may fly…”

Will rolled up the poem, stuck it in his sleeve. “He just recognises genius when he sees it,” he smiled wanly.

Richard made a face. “Don’t try to sound like Kit, it doesn’t suit you.”

For a moment, Will’s chest tingled with worry. Then he shrugged. “Everyone tries to sound like Kit. Even, dare I say it, Robert Greene.”

Richard grinned. “You haven’t heard? He died.”

Will raised an eyebrow. “Who killed him?”

“Ha, ha. Apparently, a pickled herring.”

Will made a face. “So he even pissed off the water-life.”

“Yeah, and he managed one parting shot at you.”

But Will wasn’t interested in Robert’s posthumous bitching. He only wanted this printing over and done with.

“I’ll go with you,” Richard said, perhaps eager to be of service now that he was back from the tour. “Make sure the wanker doesn’t cheat you again.”

“He won’t. Not now that he’s secured Southampton’s approval.”

But he didn’t stop Richard from tagging along. Even if Will had a patron now, procured through Dick’s connections, it felt good to have a friend with him as he went to give his heart away. He would have preferred it to be Kit, but he hadn’t been seen for days.

“Well… shall we?” Richard gestured towards Blackfriars.

“Yeah.”

May was starting to flower around them, and the air was saturated with the scent of apple blossom. The walk through London was pleasant enough, but Will hardly noticed. He hadn’t heard from Kit since the day Poley came to get him, and a nameless worry was gnawing at his heart. Perhaps he’s just at Walsingham’s again, he tried to tell himself, but for some reason the thought didn’t offer any comfort.

“Perfect,” said a stressed-out Dick Field when they entered his shop. He snatched the poem from Will, smudging Adonis’s name with his inky thumb. “Shit.” He wiped his fingers on a stained cloth. “Yes? Anything else?” His eyes darted between Richard and Will, unwilling to settle on either of them.

“No, no, I just…” Will bit his lip. “You sure about this now?”

Dick stopped what he was doing. Closed his eyes for a moment and breathed. “Yes.” He looked up, face calm now, almost serene. As if an inner storm had died down. As if a momentous decision had been made. “I’m sure.” Then he snapped out of it and nudged Will with a mischievous grin. “Besides, I have such a good reputation that they won’t convict me for one obscene book. Oh, yes, don’t object, I’ve seen it. It’s obscene, Willie. Shocking. But it’s what they want.”

“Well, you once told me to spice things up a bit,” Will conceded dully. “I suppose I’ve finally mastered the technique.”

At this, Dick glanced at him almost knowingly, but the expression soon evaporated and he tucked the sheets under his arm. “Whatever,” he shrugged. “If it doesn’t sell, I have other stuff to get me through the day. One who just died, thank God.”

Will frowned. “Excuse me?”

“I suppose it sounds crass, but he was a mediocre poet at best, and death is a real crowd tickler. The truth is, when authors die, business soars. I wish more writers would drop dead. That way, I would make a real profit and not have to deal with the bastards.” He chuckled to himself. “I tell you, my rival Jones is really lucky. He will sell enormously now that Marlowe’s headed for the gallows.”

Will swayed on his feet. Gallows? Something spread like wildfire through his body, burning as it went. He forced his eyes to seek out Dick’s, hunting for an ironic crease, a raised eyebrow, anything. But Dick just spread his hands with an apologetic smile. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Jones has already doubled the price on the new edition of _Tamburlaine_.”

Will wasn’t aware that his knees were buckling until Richard caught him. The printing room was swirling around him, reduced to a meaningless blur. He clung to Richard’s arm, fighting the dizziness that threatened to plunge him into darkness. His throat and stomach had turned to tanning liquid and his mind convulsed like a worm in a raven’s beak. Kit headed for the gallows? It was madness, it was as far from sanity as anything could be. It was a joke, a blunder, a snag in the Great Chain of Being – it was a host of things that Will’s brain threw up for him to cling to, but it was not, it must not be, it could not be the fucking truth.

“Are you sure?” he heard Richard ask, his voice tense above him. “Where did you hear it? And when?”

“Yesterday,” Dick replied, his voice chirpy and mundane, completely unsuited to the farcical, tragi-comical shambles of a scene he was taking part in. “What’s the matter? I mean, everybody knows he was carted off to the Tower… right? Didn’t you know?”

“Come on,” Richard said, and half dragged, half walked Will to the door and down the street to the nearest tavern. Next thing Will knew, he was sitting in a corner and Richard shoved a mug of ale in front of him. “Drink it,” he said, and Will drank. His eyes hurt from staring at the unintelligible graffiti carved into the table top.

“He likes to mess with my head,” he heard himself say. “He must know about us – actually how did he know? He must have been at the tavern or something…”

“I don’t think he knew,” Richard said, playing along although half of what Will was saying couldn’t possibly make any sense to him.

“Why else would he make up a story like that?” But with every gulp, Will’s head began to clear, and he became conscious of a conversation at a table not far off.

“I heard it was some unfinished business in the Low Countries that caught up with him.”

“No, no, it was something to do with national security. Poley himself came for him.”

“He did? Well then, there must be undoubted proof of high treason!”

Their raucous laughter battered at Will’s ears. High treason – a phrase that covered many things. A series of images flashed through his mind, of him and Kit in various states of undress, their bodies intertwined in animal lust. Harmless enough on its own, a practise that was definitely frowned upon but not deemed important enough to call in the Privy Council for. In combination with coining and atheism, on the other hand, now that was an entirely different story.

Will slowly looked up and met Richard’s frightened gaze. “Don’t,” Richard whispered, and Will remembered saying the same thing to Kit the moment before he plunged a knife into a drawer.

He clasped his head in his hands. “Poley… I’ll kill him!”

“Please calm down.”

“But… if Kit is executed…” Will couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. It was a sentence that had no ending. It was an ‘if’ clause that couldn’t be resolved. If Kit was executed, then all that remained was to send another soul to keep his company: Will’s or Poley’s.

But Will was no killer. He should be halfway across London by now, seeking out the spy, screaming for revenge, but his rage only dissolved into useless despair. His body shook with a thousand nameless emotions, but not one of them would make him get up from the table, whip out his blade and bury it in Poley’s heart.

“He might still make it,” Richard insisted. “Remember last time? He was in Newgate then, and people’s gossip made it out to be the Tower. Just prattle, you know? This will be over before you know it. He’ll turn up smiling and triumphant and berate you for being such an unbeliever. Please, Will…”

“Yes,” Will whispered and closed his eyes to the world, telling it to go away and give him Kit back in return. “Yes, that’s true.”

He couldn’t force himself to believe it, but he must. Fear was howling in his mind like a banshee, he was shivering with it, but he must keep faith. Because for Kit to be executed… Will’s throat constricted. It was impossible. It didn’t fit the story. It was ridiculous. It would be like killing off the main character half-way through a play and expecting the audience to retain interest. If Kit died, Death could take anyone, anyone at all. No one was safe. If the Father of Theatre was caught, the Muses’ pet… anyone was fair game.

***

He hadn’t been sleeping – how could he? – but when the tapping sound came from the window, it seemed to wake him up. Half crazy with wild hope, he sprang from his bed and ran to open it. There wasn’t room for any thoughts or any feelings when a slightly bruised Kit clambered in. Will’s heart just stopped in his chest and he couldn’t breathe. Kit brushed some whitewash from his clothes and then grinned at him, for all the world as if he’d only nipped out for a grilled quail and was back before anyone should have noticed.

“Jesus…” The day’s tension slipped out of Will in a sob-like rush of air.

“Ugh, the amount of rats in the Tower!” Kit made a face. “They’re the real owners of that fucking place. And they’re never executed.” He flung himself on Will’s bed, scratching his head wearily. “That fucker Thomas… he told on me!”

“Thomas?” Will repeated incredulously, his heart only now starting to beat again. “Thomas Walsingham betrayed you?”

“No, no. It was Tom. Kyd.”

“What?”

“I know. It’s unbelievable. I thought we were friends. Hah! What a notion.”

“But what do you mean he told on you? He doesn’t know about Oxford, does he? Or Southampton?”

Kit sat up with a sigh. “Oxford? No…” He smiled, as if the idea that the earl could ever touch him was somehow amusing. “But he knows a lot of other things.” He suddenly looked indescribably tired, but he had never been more beautiful to Will. He wanted to take him in his arms and rock him like a baby, but he refrained, knowing that Kit would resent such a silly paternal instinct. “Never mind. It’s done. And I suppose he had his reasons for telling. If they’d caught me first, I would probably have told them anything they wanted to know.”

Will went cold at the thought of the torture that must have preceded the unexpected betrayal. For a moment, the dripping stone and the scurrying rats of the Tower felt very close.

He shivered. “Maybe you should… tone it down a bit, you know?”

Kit looked up with a stern frown. “Tone what down, exactly?”

Will walked on trembling legs to the bed and sat down beside him. “Your… atheism, for one thing.”

“I told you, I’m not an atheist.”

“Well, you’re not exactly a church-going Protestant, either!”

Kit scoffed. “That Protestant thing is just bollocks. It won’t save your hide to say you’re a Protestant any more than being a Catholic is a ticket to the gallows.”

“Catholics lose their lands,” Will argued hotly, more hotly that the topic deserved. He was still scared to death and wanted to pick a fight. “I’ve seen it happen at first hand.”

Kit sighed impatiently. “I don’t believe you still go for that crap. Protestant, Catholic… who cares?”

“Everybody!”

“Yes, and that’s how _she_ wants it,” Kit burst out. The echo of his cry seemed to reverberate between the walls of Will’s small room. Kit sighed, and then went on in a softer voice, “That’s what they tell you… to keep you in your place. Nobody cares what creed you have. We’ve got all kinds in this city: Jews, Muslims, Christians… The Queen doesn’t care, so why should we? There are those who do, though, and she uses that to her own ends. As long as we’re fighting each other, we’re not fighting her. So whether you burn incense or not, she couldn’t care less.”

“I was brought up to believe that it was everything,” Will insisted, clinging to the argument as if to life itself, wanting Kit to persuade him, to tell him how everything worked, to prove that he was an omnipotent being and therefore untouchable. Kit looked at him in amusement. Perhaps he guessed at why Will was debating the stupid point so eagerly. Perhaps he just found him cute.

“Yes, and have a think about that,” he said. “Why were you brought up that way? Who told you this? Parents, of course. But who else?”

“Wha… _everyone._ ”

“Everyone who?”

“Well, my teachers…”

“Yes.” Kit smiled sadly. “Your teachers. Now who founded the schools, I wonder? Oh, and why? Out of the goodness of his heart?”

Will frowned. “There were schools before Henry VIII.”

“Yes. Religious schools. Now we can’t have that, can we? Don’t you see? It’s all there, they’re building a system. It’s genius, really.”

“You’re one to talk. You went to university.”

“Yes, I did. I made the most of the system. But do I believe in it? It’s all a sham, Will. Do you think because I went to university, that people listen to me, or that I can make a change?”

“Of course they listen to you, that’s why–”

“… they’re trying to shut me up.” Kit rubbed his temples wearily. “Yes. You’re right. Flawed reasoning, right there. Won’t happen again. But they didn’t educate me so that I could have my say. They educated me to amputate me.”

“You hardly ever went to a lecture.”

“Which is why my hands are still intact.” Kit wiggled his fingers in Will’s face. “And why I’m still alive. So please, Will. Raise your eyes. Look beyond your education. And don’t go blaming your precious Master Jenkins now. It wasn’t his fault. He was educated too, remember? He was spoon-fed the lies. By the time you have a platform for saying what you want, you’ve already become part of the system. It’s how it works.”

“But father…” Will mumbled, still willing to continue the discussion even though he was already won over.

“Your father?” Kit shook his head. “Now you’re going to drag your poor _father_ into this, whose sole majestic feat of giving life to you makes him the oracle of Delphi, unable to do wrong?”

“No, but he was–”

“… the bailiff, yes. And if you’re in the employ of the Queen – yes, the Queen, her extended arm in little Stratford, don’t tell me he never had any trouble reconciling his roles as bailiff and private man? Right. Thought so. So he was one of the little threads in her web. He was just a man, sober enough to be elected for the office, but otherwise no better than anyone else. And you’re going to take his word for what happens in this country? How it’s run?”

Will slumped like a boneless fish on the bed. “Well, what’s the alternative? I take yours?”

That finally silenced Kit. After a long while he sighed and said, “I suppose you shouldn’t. I’m only the messenger.” He stood up. “Anyway, I have to leave. Boats to catch, letters to deliver, all that. I just wanted to tell you.”

Will shot to his feet. “Not again!”

“Well then, I may as well deliver myself up.”

Will wanted to slap him, to shake him until he took back his stupid words. Instead, he said in a plaintive voice, “But they released you?”

Kit stood up and stepped close to him. “Can’t you see? That’s just a screen. A test of loyalty or some inane shit like that. They must really think I’m stupid. Well, I’ve worked for this bloody government too bloody long not to know how they operate. My only option is to take this assignment.” He smiled with half-hearted bravado.

Overcome with tenderness, Will threw his arms around him. _Please stay_ , he mimed soundlessly, a crazy plea that wasn’t meant to be heard.

But miraculously, Kit picked it up. “Stop fussing. I’ll leave the country for a while and survive this mess, you’ll see. I’ve done it before.”

Will released him and looked long and hard at his soul mate. A voice spoke through him in words he didn’t think he had in him. “Then let me join you.”

A deep silence descended on the room. Kit should laugh at him, but he only watched him inscrutably. Then finally he asked, “Do you mean that?”

The world seemed to turn upside down. “I’d follow you anywhere.”

Their breaths trembled in the brief silence. “You’d have to live abroad for several months.”

“I don’t care. Where would we go?”

“Italy.”

Will’s lips curved into a terrified smile. Italy… home of Ovid, Catullus and Virgil. And the Holy Father. “Will we be able to live together there?” he whispered hoarsely.

“Like lovers?” Kit grinned. “Sure. According to Montaigne, some men even marry there.”

Will laughed, but it sounded like a hiccup. “Alright. Just tell me what to do.”

Kit gazed at him in wonder. “I’m…” he began, and then stopped to swallow. Grimacing, perhaps to conceal his emotion, he tried again. “I’m stopping by in Deptford tomorrow, after reporting to the palace. Poley is giving me the papers. You know Eleanor Bull?”

“The safe-house.”

“Right.”

“Meet me at ten in the evening and we’ll leave by the river.”

“But Poley…”

“What about him?”

“Do you trust him?”

Kit laughed. “Not with my lunch money. But you know I’m like the old pike in the rushes. Impossible to outwit.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Have you ever known me to be wrong?”

Will kissed him. “More times than I can count.”

But even as he said it, his chest was swelling with sudden expectation. Adventure breezed through the room like the caress of a sea wind gone astray. This was crazy and they both knew it. But Kit was always crazy, and Will could do with some craziness in his life.

Kit grabbed Will’s neck. “Hey, I’ve got something to show you when we get on the boat.”

Will chuckled and slipped his hand down to cradle Kit’s crotch. “I’ve already seen it. Nothing to write home about.”

Kit snorted. “I thought you wanted to know what happened to Leander?”

Will grinned and squeezed lightly. “I’m sure it’s really bad.”

Gracing the insult with a purse of the lips, Kit made to move towards the window. Will shot out a hand to stop him. “Don’t go yet,” he begged uselessly. “The sun isn’t even up.”

Kit didn’t look at him, but he did smile. “Can’t be without me even for a day?” he teased, and Will considered answering in the affirmative. Kit glanced at him, and then pulled him close for a warm hug. “It’s time,” he whispered. “The tide doesn’t wait.”

Grabbing Will’s chin, he tilted his head for a kiss. Will closed his eyes and allowed himself to melt into it. Without the aid of sight, his other senses opened to numbing smells, the soft caress of Kit’s hair, their hearts beating in unison. Their lips were molten metal. Will’s dull lead mingled with Kit’s mercury to create precious gold, their two opposing temperaments merging into one single being, like a metamorphosis straight out of Ovid.

Then Kit tore himself away, opened the window and clambered out. Hesitating on the ledge, he put a hand up his sleeve and drew out a small vial, placed it in Will’s hand. The Red Fairy. “Just in case they come sniffing around you today,” he said with a mischievous wink. “They’ll think you’re a basket case. You won’t have to answer any questions.”

Will scoffed. “You don’t think I can fake a few pretty stories?” he asked. “I am a writer, after all!”

Kit paused before dropping to the ground, a taunting smile on his ruddy lips as his eyes twinkled up at Will. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not _that_ good.”


	30. Chapter 30

The first thing Will did was to inform the landlady that he wouldn’t be needing his room anymore. “But please don’t tell anyone before two weeks have passed. I’ll pay you to pretend I still live here.”

Having made these arrangements, he packed his belongings into a couple of satchels that he hadn’t used since the day he left Stratford five and a half years ago. It occurred to him to worry about his family, but he reassured himself that his being in London or Italy made no difference to them. Either way he was out of reach, and what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them. They only expected him home for Christmas and Lent, both of which were still far away. He would continue sending money. They wouldn’t even notice that he was gone.

He did experience a brief twinge of guilt at the thought of abandoning the Pembroke’s Men, but the death count from the plague was rising again, and the company would be leaving for another tour in a few days. They didn’t even need new texts, since they were visiting small towns that had seen neither _Titus_ nor _The Shrew_.

But he must tell them. Tell Richard. Their work together must come to an end. Maybe they could pick it up again when Will and Kit came back, after all this had blown over, but until then, it was goodbye.

The mere thought of meeting Richard’s loyal gaze while telling him that he was leaving was too much to bear, however. It must be done in writing, then. As the day began to fade into the red gold of evening, Will scribbled a few aching words of apology, imposing the same vow of silence on his friend as on his landlady.

And then finally dusk began to settle. The warmth of day seeped away and purple shadows loomed over the city streets, chasing the burning pink sun to the western horizon. As it dipped below the rim of the world and left it to fend for itself against alley cats and bandits, Will shouldered one satchel and grabbed the other one in his hand, took one last look at his room and then went down the stairs. Outside, life was quieting down for the night and no one paid him any mind as he started walking in the direction of Deptford. He was just another traveller, another disappointed soul who had given up on making it big in the capital.

The suburbs were asleep when he arrived. The drowsy water of the Thames could be heard lapping against the stone wall along the bank, and only the occasional voice called through the deepening darkness: a mother beckoning to her child, a lone drunk singing a bawdy song. Eleanor Bull’s establishment came into view, a friendly building rising above the quiet streets, comforting candles in the windows. Will felt as though the wings of a large bird were beating in his chest. Kit would already be there, waiting for him, making some last minute arrangements, perhaps. Yes: through an upper storey window, he caught a glimpse of unruly hair and a doublet of midnight blue. His heart beat harder at the sight, and he smiled to himself.

But then he saw something else. There were a few other men up there with him. Will stopped and squinted, straining to see through a thickening drizzle. Was Kit still caught up in his meeting? Or were they helpers, maybe, sea captains or guides of some sort that would be of assistance on the way to Italy? That seemed unlikely. They were supposed to slip away unnoticed. Invisible to all but the stars.

The figures inside were gesturing wildly. Kit appeared to be upset. He was arguing with one of the others, and with a start, Will recognised him as Poley. In a way, it was all as it should be. Hadn’t Kit said that he was supposed to meet with the spy? But something about the scene up there made him uneasy: the shifty looks, the dismay on Kit’s face… and then Will saw the unmistakable shape of Walsingham’s raven-like servant. Cold flashed through his body. What was he doing there?

Dropping the satchels, Will made a dash for the door. As he burst inside, Mistress Bull looked up with a bland smile on her face. “Good evening.” There was a scraping of chairs from above, a loud thump and then a marrow-chilling scream. Will’s scalp prickled as if showered with knives. Mistress Bull’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Hold him down!” someone shouted up there.

“Jesus…” Will started up the squeaking stairs, taking two steps at a time. But when he reached the top step, he caught himself on the banister. Through a crack in the door, he could see a writhing body on the floor, feet kicking out from under a dark shape that was straddling him. There was a grunt, and the screaming stopped. The man stood up and turned. It was Walsingham’s servant, a blade in his hand. A blade dripping blood.

And then, in the unmistakable, cold voice of Poley the spy, “So I suppose that’s the end of Kit Marlowe?”

Amid the laughter of the gathered men, Will staggered backwards and fell. With a resounding thud, he landed a few steps down, and Walsingham’s head jerked up. “Who the hell…?” Scrambling to his feet, Will turned and flew down the stairs, instinct taking over where his brain stopped functioning. He almost knocked over Mistress Bull as he fled through the door, looked around wildly and went for the river. Raised voices and heavy boots were already on his trail. One moment lost, and they would catch him.

_Yes, let them. The world is dead. My world._

But his body wouldn’t let him stop, wouldn’t let him deliver himself up to death without a fight. It ran with his soul its prisoner, with his heart in a crushing grip, down the alley to the docks, and threw itself headlong into the water. Behind the stone wall, it could hear the men burst into the street, loudly agreeing on how to split up. Breathing in deeply, it clung to an iron ring meant for mooring boats and ducked under the water.

The world went dark. Counting slowly, holding its breath until its lungs ached, it stayed beneath the surface. Battling with panic, forcing itself to stay put just a moment more, and just one more…

Consciousness slipped away into the darkness of oblivion. Yearning for forgetfulness. Giving up.

But then his body pulled itself up, gasped for air. Far away, Poley’s voice shouted at one of the other men to run. “Don’t worry, I’ll catch whoever it was!” Shuddering, Will’s body held fast, kicking with its legs under water so as not to be borne away on the current: it remembered how strong the river was, even this close to the bank.

Once again it was on the verge of drowning, but this time no one would come to the rescue. No one in the whole wide world. Because where there had once been life, there was now an aching, vacant nothing. Stillness, in the place of dancing mercury.

And he couldn’t keep it out anymore. The full truth blasted through his momentary defences. Suspended in the icy water, left to battle for life alone, Will pressed his forehead against the rough stone and opened his mouth in a silent scream, an inner earthquake of anguish for a dead Shepherd.


	31. Chapter 31

Will didn’t go to the funeral. He knew what Kit would look like: peaceful and serene – everything that he wasn’t in his waking life. Richard spent a few days with him, but when the Pembroke’s Men went on tour again, Will was left on his own in the dusty heat of beginning summer. The landlady gave him a surprised look, but he had paid for the two extra weeks and there was no reason why he shouldn’t be allowed to stay until the new tenant showed up.

On the fourth day he ran out of crackers, and after that he only drank beer, lying on his bed, marinated in his own sweat and the grime of the unchanged sheets, until hunger and thirst finally drove him out of doors. The garish sun hurt his eyes and made them water, its stinging rays pure evil, but he soldiered on through the streets, searching for an open tavern.

He didn’t find one. London was a ghost town. Grass had begun to grow in the thoroughfare. _Lord have mercy on us_ was written on placards outside every other house. June was flowering all around and the air was warm, but the people were nowhere to be seen. There were no carriages, no Sunday strollers, no nobles around. They had all scampered off to their country estates. The poor and middling classes hid behind their shutters and the sprigs of rue in their windows, only coming out at twilight to throw water on the flagstones. The few who ventured into the streets hardly looked at each other, but hurried along with their heads down, intent on doing their errands and returning to the perceived safety of their homes. A lone end-of-days preacher was packing up his box, giving up: there was no one there to listen to him. Armageddon had already happened.

And it all made sense. Kit was dead.

For the first time in many years, Will walked through London without a text forming in his head. His feet pounded out the usual metric, but there were no words to fill the empty stanzas. It was just a meaningless rhythm, a dumb, orphaned heartbeat supplying blood to nothing. His head was as empty as his heart. He just walked around, looking at the ghosts in the windows, trying to convince himself that they could see him. When a lone woman bumped into him, she didn’t even say sorry.

He walked past the Mermaid, where he had once been introduced to the writers, where Kit had defended his poetry and sent him on the path to stardom. He crossed the deserted Bridge, and it only took ten minutes. On the south bank, the Rose cast its shadow over the road like the skeleton of some mythical beast. Will’s skull reverberated with the memory of the thunderstorm that had cut short their rehearsal of _The Jew_.

He continued along the wharf until he reached the site where Kit had dragged his lifeless body from the water and made him immortal with a kiss. He sat down, took off his boots and dipped his feet in the water. It was icy, and the shock sent a message to his brain: _Either you die here, let yourself fall into the river and let it carry you away into oblivion, or you go home_.

Home… to the people who still defined him, who would put food in front of him and let him sleep in their beds.

Somehow the decision was made, in a part of him untouched by temporal matters. And so it was that two days later he stood on the threshold of the house in Henley Street, blinking in confusion at the cramped rooms. Agnes and mother and Joanie all took turns embracing him, then sat him down and served him bread and cheese. They chattered about the banal goings-on in the town – how Goodwife Field was already flirting with someone new, how the Sadlers’ business was flourishing: there was not a better cherry pie to be had in the whole of Warwickshire. The children dutifully sat on his knee and he dutifully let them. Hamnet recited his faltering ABC, while Judith told him about the medicinal herbs she had learnt and Susanna said nothing. Father asked him about work. When they finally fell quiet, waiting for replies, Will’s lips formed words that filled in the blanks.

In the evening he joined his wife in their oversized bed. His side of the mattress was fluffy from long disuse. He wasn’t even sure that he was here now, but Agnes seemed to think so. When the fire had been covered, she reached for him, and he let himself be led like a lamb to the slaughter. Under the sheets, she peeled off a chafing layer of fabric from Will’s pulsating wound, then another. She put her hand inside and fumbled around for him.

“You look as if it’s painful,” she murmured, hurt. “Sorry about my fingernails. I’m trying to…”

She eased down Will’s hose and curled her body over his reluctant erection. As she kissed it, the dull ache in Will’s throat tightened to a searing knot. The mouth that swallowed him alive was a scourge from God, a glimpse of what awaited him after death: an eternity of torment, without Kit.

Imprisoned in his chest, his heart was howling desolately. As the stranger who was his wife worked earnestly on his reluctant flesh, acid rivulets coursed through his dried-up veins, scorching him inside. He was cut open, bled white and hung up to be eaten by carrion birds. They were already picking at his eyes, and the blood trickled down his face like the warm summer rain at Scadbury Manor.

When he finally came, it was a mere physical convulsion of utter loneliness.

***

And so the summer went by in a dense fog. During the day, Will sat in a chair in the garden, huddled in a blanket, listening to faraway voices and staring at the flower beds. Waiting for death or life, whichever came first.

The children went in circles around him, afraid to bother their silent, motionless father. He knew that they whispered about him, but he didn’t care. At twenty-nine, he was already an old man. Maybe he could live the rest of his life in this garden. Maybe if he stayed still enough, he could fool Death into taking him.

But the nightly duties in his marriage bed finally proved too much to bear. He had to get away from the intimacy of family life, back to the anonymity of the city.

Back to the scene of the crime.

On the first day of autumn, he waved his goodbyes and set off towards the east again.

***

During the months that Will had been away, something had changed. When he had left, the streets had been deathly quiet. Now the plague had retreated and the city was peopled again, conversations picked up where they had been left off. But where the teeming multitudes had once been gossiping about the poet Christopher Marlowe, the streets were now abuzz with another name.

It began with snippets of conversation in the taverns, exchanges where Will’s name figured, together with the names of two ancient lovers: _Venus and Adonis._ Dick had gone ahead and printed it, and now every stupid cunt in London had got their grubby hands on the sacred text. But while Will’s epyllion soared, the fragments of _Hero and Leander_ languished in an unprintable limbo, hidden from view, perhaps even confiscated by the state. Death had devoured the ending, and only a graveyard silence held sway.

Pending other plans, Will stayed with Richard. He provided a room, a hot meal and a sympathetic ear, should he desire it. A quill and a couple of sheets of paper lay on a desk by his bed, complete with a few scrapped story fragments. Richard obviously hoped they would spark some inspiration. But what was the point? The Earl of Pembroke’s Men had broken up and Richard was out of work. Kempe strove for his daily bread by doing jigs in the street. Augustine and Jack understudied for the Queen’s Men, but even that company was disintegrating.

In his letters to Stratford, Will lied about how great everything was. He couldn’t very well reveal how he scraped a living as a spear carrier, flitting between companies. They wouldn’t understand. They weren’t here to see how the world of theatre was crumbling. Players left and joined new troupes, went on tour or fell ill and died. Nobody seemed to know who belonged to which company any longer. Vague lease contracts put a stop to performances when the puritans didn’t beat them to it. It was mayhem.

But of course it was only to be expected. The era of dramatized stories was over. The birth and rise of the theatre had been such an explosion that the whole thing must fall apart sooner or later. Will should be grieving for it, but he couldn’t care less. He was staying for the death rattle, but when the business finally croaked, he would find something else to do. Maybe volunteer in the army. It didn’t really matter.

And still Richard wanted Will to write. Every day when he came with the tray to Will’s room, he threw a discreet glance at the desk, and his face betrayed disappointment when the sheets were still unblotted. According to him, each day that Will spent without putting words on paper was a day lost.

Maybe he should scribble something, just to make Richard happy. Dick had asked for a follow-up to Venus: now that the opportunist printer knew how lucrative Warwickshire poetry could be, there was no end to the dinner invitations and the offers of help. Maybe Will could patch together those scraps he had discarded last winter – about Tarquin’s ravishing of Lucrece? Pull it together, the way you can’t pull yourself together. Just shuffle some pages into a pile and cart them off to Dick. _It will give you a few shillings, something to take you through the winter. Something to give back to Richard._

But he couldn’t. Where his burning need to write had once been, now there was just a big nothing.

He reached for the pitcher of ale and drank directly from it. Richard had put a couple of eggs on the tray as well, but Will didn’t touch them. The ale was quite enough of a breakfast for him. It marked the start of endless, identical days and sustained him through the hours of sunshine until the evening soup.

“What would Kit have told you to do?”

Will started and turned. Richard was standing in the doorway, arms crossed. Will scowled. “I don’t care.”

“Sure you do. If there’s anything you ever cared about, it’s what he thought.”

Will breathed in to retort something, but let it all out again in a sigh. There was no point pretending.

“He would have laughed at you,” Richard said. “Kicked your butt. ‘Get up, you lazy bastard. You want to use my death as an excuse not to work?’ You did have a life before him, you know.”

Will snorted wearily. “Like I’d want to become that person again?”

“No. But you lived for twenty-three years without him. Without even a clue who he was.”

“That’s not true. I read his _Amores._ I saw his _Dido_ and his _Tamburlaine._ He cast his shadow on my life long before I met him.”

“Okay. But you’ve still got _Tamburlaine_ , and you’ve still got _Amores_ , even though you haven’t got him.” Richard breathed in, as if debating with himself. “… and you’ve got this.” He produced a book from behind his back. Will reached for it: an involuntary gesture, but Richard saw it and seemed relieved. What, Will held out his hand of his own free will, and that was taken as a decision to live?

Richard held the book aloft, out of Will’s reach. “Just promise…” he croaked, and then cleared his throat. “I mean, at least try to survive… just for another twenty-three years, you know? You can do that, Will. Live as long again as you did before.”

Will went a long time without answering, silently counting the years, the endless stretch of years that Richard was asking him to endure before he gave up and stopped trying. “Alright,” he whispered after a while. “Twenty-three years. You have my word.”

Breathing out, Richard gave him the book.

“ _The Legend of Piers Gaveston._ ” Will’s chest tingled painfully. “By Michael Drayton.”

“Apparently he comes from Warwickshire.”

“So?”

Richard shrugged, but he evidently expected Will to take an interest.

Will opened the book. “ _O end my days, for now my joys are done, wanting my Piers, my sweetest Gaveston._ ” He hurriedly closed it and looked away. So there were others? Others who could feel this way?

“Thought it might… inspire you.”

Will closed his eyes and shook his head. Inspiration was a laughable mirage. His muse had left him, his soul had left him. He was nothing but an empty shell. But the little book burned in his hands and he knew that he was going to read it. Wincing, he reopened it.

“ _Farewell sweet friend, with thee my joys are gone,_  
_Farewell mv Peirs, my lovely Gaveston._  
_What are the rest but painted imagery,_  
_Dumb idols made to fill up idle rooms?”_

“There’s only one choice, Will,” Richard said, turning to go. “Either you live, and then you have to work. Or you don’t.”

Just then, there was a ruckus at the front door. Heavy feet clomped up the stairs, and in seconds, Augustine burst in on them like a gust of wind. “There you are, you fools! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Yeah? Who died?” Will asked, unwilling to move for less than the thousand year war.

“Wrong question,” Augustine grinned. “Something was born today.”


	32. Chapter 32

When the ragged bunch of actors stepped into the audience chamber of Somerset House, the Lord Chamberlain greeted them like old friends. They had all been sent for: Will, Richard, Augustine and Jack; George, Sinklo and Pope; Christopher and Alexander. Everyone who had ever walked with any kind of dignity on the boards, except possibly for Edward Alleyne.

“Welcome, welcome,” the Lord Chamberlain gushed, taking each of them by the hand as if they were the lords and he their servant. “Grape?”

A dark-skinned woman came forward with a sumptuous offering of exotic fruits, their colours anomalously radiant in the bleak light from the windows. The Men snuck out self-conscious hands and snatched the smallest and most modest-looking fruits they could find. Not daring to bite into them while Hunsdon was speaking, they hid them in their palms, curling trembling fingers around smooth, rounded skins.

“This situation with the companies is untenable,” Hunsdon was explaining amicably, stroking his white beard as if deep in thought. “There is such confusion, such unsightly lack of order… But I’m doing something about it. Henceforth, there will be no more than two companies in charge of entertaining the Queen. One will be my son-in-law’s. He’s already got a tenuous grasp on the Admiral’s, after all. And the other one will be mine.” He paused for dramatic effect, blue eyes twinkling with childish mischief. “I am, as you may know, quite the aficionado. That’s why I’m handpicking the best for my own company.”

Richard and Will exchanged glances. Hunsdon wasn’t exaggerating: the best men from Will’s street company were all there, as were those most applauded in their former companies. The Lord Chamberlain knew what he was doing in creating this troupe. It was almost as if God had finally answered Will’s prayers, only too late.

“And that’s why you’re a part of this as well, Goodman Shakespeare,” Hunsdon said, jarring him out of his thoughts. “Because of your plays. The Admiral’s Men will own all of the late Master Marlowe’s work, of course, and I want someone equally talented to write for my Men…” Hunsdon’s eyes narrowed as he took in Will’s apparent lack of enthusiasm. “Look, you really have no choice, although by your demeanour I gather that this is not entirely welcome news.”

“Forgive him,” Richard cut in quickly. “He’s been recently bereaved.”

“Oh! My sincerest condolences, then. But other than that, you’re happy with the arrangement?”

Will nodded numbly. For the hundredth time, Richard stepped in and saved him – from embarrassment, from danger, from himself. Recently bereaved, indeed. Almost a full year had passed since Kit died.

Only twenty-two years to go.

Minor glitch out of the way, Hunsdon continued his giddy monologue. “I also think that all these venues are a problem. Performances in every little inn, such a mess! So I’m placing the Admiral’s Men firmly at the Rose and you, my friends, will be based at Master Burbage’s Theatre in Shoreditch. So we’ll have one venue to the north of the city and another on the south bank. That should be quite sufficient. I’m quite pleased with the arrangement, if I do say so myself. And Emilia here agrees, don’t you, dear?” He looked at the woman with the fruits, and she beamed back at him. Satisfied, Hunsdon turned back to what was now, apparently, his company. “Your first assignment will be to celebrate the Countess of Southampton’s recent marriage.”

“W-we have just the thing,” Jack blurted. “A light-hearted comedy about love, magic and supernatural beings.”

Will started. What was he on about? Supernatural beings, Jesus…

“This light-hearted comedy… is it set in Italy?” Emilia asked.

Something twisted painfully behind Will’s ribs. Did she know about his and Kit’s abortive plans to go there? He reluctantly met her gaze and noted the darkness there, recalled the accent in her speech. It must be her home country.

“It could be… right, W-will?” Jack shot a hopeful glance at him, urging him to behave in this illustrious company.

“It could,” he managed.

“A fiery, Mediterranean story,” Jack added, eagerly latching on to the provenance of Hunsdon’s mistress. “It w-will attract thousands of playgoers.”

“Fiery, you say…” Lord Hunsdon looked worried. “Yes… right now, I think her Majesty needs some reassurance, what with the floods and the cold and the failed crops and everything…”

“It’s very reassuring,” Jack hastened to say. “The message is one of all-conquering love.”

Will breathed in deeply but didn’t sigh. Instead he mumbled, “I’m afraid my weak grasp of Italian culture won’t make it palatable to its true inhabitants.”

Emilia laughed. “That needn’t be a problem. I can lend you any number of maps and traveller’s guides.”

The trap sprung on Will’s heart with a sharp pain. Instead of talking himself out of it, he had stumbled right into another promise, this time of an Italian play, when he would rather not think about that country at all.

“Well,” Hunsdon clapped his hands to seal the bargain. “An Italian comedy it is, then.” A temporary shadow crossed his face as he perhaps remembered advising against it just now, but he quickly regained his good humour and turned, smiling and sighing, to his mistress. “You know I can’t deny you anything.”

As the door to Somerset House closed once more behind them, Will slumped against the wall. “Jesus!” Richard grabbed his arm, suddenly angry. “This is the break we’ve been waiting for, and you decide to throw in the towel? Thanks a lot!”

“I just…” Will squirmed, face growing hot with shame. “There’s nothing more to say.”

“So rewrite your old plays. People want to see _The Shrew_ again, and it can be embellished. And it’s set in Italy! Can’t you see this as a new start?”

“Which we will celebrate with old hits in new garb?”

“Well, it’s either that or you write something new. You heard the Lord Chamberlain. You have no choice. He owns us now. And he’s waiting for his ‘light-hearted comedy’.”

Will grimaced. “My words all withered when my rival died.”

“So plant new ones. Your head is an unweeded garden. Use it!”

“Unweeded garden?” Despite himself, Will assigned the expression a place in his memory. “I… like that.”

Richard relaxed somewhat. “I knew you would.”

“But I… I’m just so tired.”

“So? You think we’re not? You think we want to get up every day and rehearse sorry pieces of trash in the morning and perform an equally bad play in the afternoon, for morons who clap at anything? You think we choose to do it because it’s so bloody fun? No. We do it because there’s nothing else we know how to do.”

Of course Richard had a point, but Will didn’t have it in him to come up with another masterpiece. Especially not a comedy. How could he open the golden box of laughs and romance when his mind was filled with lead?

But he had to. Fuck it, he had to!

Straightening up, he gave Richard a wan smile, hoping that it looked convincing. “I’ll manage something,” he said.

“Yeah, you’d better. This is our fucking chance.”

With a little shake, Richard let go of his arm and walked away. The others dispersed too, shifty looks betraying their weak faith in their playwright. Maybe he should be insulted, but they were right not to believe in him. Whatever it was that had allowed him to wow the city with _Richard III_ , he had lost it now.

So he would have to write something on sheer routine. Walking away, he forced himself to think. Did he have any fragments lying around that fit Jack’s crazy idea? _The Merchant_ , perhaps? His throat convulsed. An image crashed into his mind, of his and Kit’s hurried farewell – a memory so painfully tender that he clutched his chest, afraid that something had snapped in there. _This is ridiculous. How can I mine the glittering ore of romance when the mere thought almost cripples me?_

What about the star-crossed Athenian youths, then, planning their escape from civilisation? He remembered sketching a character named Lysander, the lover of… he probed his memory. Viola? No. He did remember someone named Demetrius, though, remembered writing a fight for the wooing rights of the woman. Two men, grappling with each other, down in the dirt together, fighting it out, unbuckling helms and dealing angry fists, eternally bound by their love…

He picked up speed, bothered. Someone was trying to get through, to steal the story. But who was he, this stranger, this gate-crasher, who needed so badly to be written? Will could see the scene inside his head, like a dance. Two men, vying for the audience’s attention, like actors fighting for their respective houses…

Houses.

Frowning, he leafed through his mind. He knew there was something, somewhere…

And at once he saw it, as clearly as if the half-scribbled sheet was in his hand: Mercutio. A quicksilver madcap, uncontained by walls or boundaries. A magician with words, deadly with a sword. There was a blot in the name, and he remembered making it: Kit had surprised him in the middle of his work. Now the black spot took on all the éclat of a premonition, and suddenly Will knew exactly what to write.

Fuck the light-hearted romance. He was opening the leaden box of tragedy.

***

The air stood still, frozen: as frozen as the dunghills, as the puddles in the street, as people’s hearts. The theatres had finally been reopened, but the unseasonable cold kept the playgoers indoors. Behind their stalls, purple-lipped merchants blew on their hands and stepped on their own toes. Noses ran. Breaths came in puffs of smoke – and that at the end of May.

Alone on a bench in the uppermost gallery, Will huddled in a fur borrowed from the tiring-house. He had declined the offer of a role this time, even though he could have used the cash. But he needed to see this play from a distance, away from the action, with nothing but the frost for company. Had to be far enough from the actors to see a different face.

They had hung two curtains, one black and one red, on either side of the stage. Like the red of Kit’s flushed cheek, snaked through with the almost-black of his sweaty hair. The Capulets were all clad in red and the Montagues wore black. Only one character broke the pattern: Kit’s purple doublet had been solemnly donated by Thomas Walsingham, and Will had seen to it that Mercutio wore it. When the first fight broke out, the actors’ intricate dance flowed in red and black across the stage, intersected by flashes of purple, and it looked beautiful. As beautiful as death.

But death had no power over Kit. He glimmered as life-like as ever on the Theatre stage. Twelve months to the day after his death, he rose from his grave to reclaim his rightful place at the centre of attention, and Will held his ghostly presence in hands that trembled and cramped with the strain. _Thou shalt not hence. I’ll hide thee, Gaveston._

But it couldn’t last. Fate turned her wheel and the actor turned his back at the wrong moment. An envious sword pierced the illusion, made the red bleed into the purple of his doublet – a red so wet that it was almost black. _I was hurt under your arm._

And yet the play went on, the pretence so convincing that nobody but Will knew that it was all fake. The hero was dead, but there was still a script, waiting for the spear carriers to bring it to a dull conclusion. It was their destiny as minor characters, to stay until the very end and carry the hero from the stage. Bid the soldiers shoot. And Romeo, being of more mettle than his maker, sought out his friend’s bane to murder him in return.

_My Lord, I hear it whispered everywhere, that I am banished and must fly the land._

Even from beyond the Styx, Kit spoke through him.

_‘Romeo is banished!’ There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, in that word’s death._

Nothing Will had written was his own. It was all a gift from the other side.

_I shall be found, and then ’twill grieve me more._

Will pulled the fur closer around him.

_I must be gone and live, or stay and die._

He closed his eyes, and there, in the darkness of his mind, he could see him: the night-walker, fading into a dawning greyness, impervious to pleas. Begging Will to understand why he couldn’t stay.

_With dumb embracement, let us part._

_Farewell, farewell! One kiss, and I’ll descend._

Kit’s pale lips in the greying morning light as he climbed down from Will’s window.

_Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low, as one dead at the bottom of a tomb._

As Romeo died, the black cloth came tumbling down and landed in a lifeless heap on the floor. Juliet rose from her grave to find her lover, her secret husband dead. As she stabbed herself with her lover’s blade, the red cloth fell, and there was nothing left.

***

After the performance, Will left the gallery and joined his fellow Men behind the stage to pay his requisite compliments. They answered with good-natured nods, and then they started clearing away the props. For them, Romeo was just another play. For them, as soon as the audience disappeared, things were back to normal. They died a dozen deaths a week, and always got up and walked away.

But just as they were about to leave, the door to the tiring-house swung open, revealing a livid Lord Hunsdon. “Was this what I asked you to do? A dreary piece that does nothing to thaw the Londoners’ hearts?”

In the stunned silence, Will could hear his own heartbeat. Hunsdon was addressing him and no one else. He was the writer: the one responsible.

“You fool!” Hunsdon spat. “I promised you my protection and you promised me a play. Now you’ve broken your promise. Shall I not break mine?”

Augustine grabbed Will’s sleeve and roughly yanked him aside. “Will you hear me?”

“Preparing to ask for mercy?” Hunsdon sneered. “Save your breath. I’m having him removed from the company. A quick, neat slice of the knife. Writers are ten-a-penny.”

His usually twinkling eyes were dark with rage. He meant what he said. And at the prospect of being thrown out of his charmed circle of friends, there was a twinge in Will’s chest – as if he actually cared.

“But…” Augustine sputtered. “You’ll never get your wedding comedy if you throw him out.”

Hunsdon only hesitated for the fraction of a second. “Someone else can write it.”

“My Lord,” Augustine insisted, “if it is your will to excise Will from our – from your company, then so be it. We must bow our heads and accept. But in doing so, what if you lose more than him?”

“What do you mean?” Hunsdon asked irritably, impatient to have his butchery over and done with so that he could go home and have his Sunday steak in peace.

Augustine bowed low before him. “If Will leaves, so may others.”

Will swayed where he stood, aghast at Augustine’s audacity, but Hunsdon just scoffed. “Not without my say-so.”

“Of course,” Augustine hastened to agree. “But what if Richard Burbage, your star, should fall ill and be unable to take on any more parts? What if Kempe the clown breaks a leg on a wet stage and can’t do his jigs anymore? What if, when Will leaves, so much life leaves with him that the company is left but an empty shell? What if Will’s departure bleeds us dry?”

Will held his breath. Was Augustine threatening the Lord Chamberlain?

Hunsdon looked long and hard at the humbly bowing player before him. After an eternity, there was a slight quiver around his mouth. “I… see your point, Goodman…?”

“Phillips, my lord.”

“Well.” Hunsdon cleared his throat and fiddled with his gloves. “You have pleaded well. Perhaps you should be the author, not him. But if you don’t produce the play I want within three months, he’s out. Understand?”

No one said anything.

“Well then.” Lord Hunsdon put on his gloves with jagged, terse movements. “We have a deal. Again. Don’t let me down this time.”

The silence held for several heartbeats after the door had closed, but when they were sure that Hunsdon was out of earshot, the company broke out in cheers. “He bought it! Oh, Gus, you’re a genius!” Jack kissed Augustine on the forehead and hugged him. The others danced around giddily, like convicts released at the last moment from the Tyburn scaffold. Only Will stood alone, at a distance, watching quietly.

Richard, ever sensitive to his friend’s deviant mood, came forward to lay an arm around his shoulders. “You’re not happy?”

Will shrugged. “He didn’t like _Romeo_.”

“So what?” Richard chuckled. “It was a bit on the maudlin side.”

Will didn’t reply.

“So you’ll do this now, then? You’ll write the comedy?”

“I will.”

Richard squeezed his shoulder. “All will be well.”

Will nodded. “Yes.”

Richard gave him one last look, filled with empathy. Then he left with the others, and silence fell on the tiring-house. Looking around, Will felt as if he was watching through someone else’s eyes. The past two hours seemed surreal, as if they hadn’t even happened. As if they were just a dream.

_If we shadows have offended…_

And yet he wanted to relive them. He wanted to lose himself in the illusion, to squint from the gallery and really believe that the man in the purple doublet was actually Kit.

_… think but this, and all is mended…_

He felt dazed. During those two hours, they had touched once again, mind to true mind. He had felt the presence of Kit in the lines spoken by his loyal players.

… _that you did but slumber here…_

He looked over at the props, at his old copy of _Metamorphoses_ that lay on the topmost shelf since the days of _Titus Andronicus._ Maybe he could find something new in there, something to build his castle in the air.

… _while these visions did appear._

Despite everything, his heart was speeding up, gaining force. A new character was surfacing in the backwaters of his mind, like a mermaid on a dolphin’s back, and the features of this merry wanderer were well known to him.

Locking the door to the tiring-house, he stepped out into the bustling streets, into the on-going, never-ending prattle of the barbarous multitudes. Because for good or ill, he knew now that he had a mission – one that only he could perform. Like Orpheus, he must descend into Hades and bring his love to shore, never to look back. Only he could write the Shepherd, since only he had known him. Only he could show the future world what Christopher Marlowe had been like. When everyone that now drew breath was dead and buried, Kit would still be alive in the verse of his friend, his lover, his rival. Through flowing ink, through words that commanded truth and shaped the world, Will would conquer death and make the Shepherd rise again and again, in play after heart-rending play, Phoenix-like – conjured by a cramping hand, a heart cut clean from its cage and a mind that forgot nothing.


	33. Epilogue: 1616

_Stop!_

The echo of the shout reverberated between the trees, drowned in the warbling waters at his feet. Swaying, Will caught himself on the bough of a willow. The bark bit into his skin, slashed through his momentary trance. Heart in his throat, he turned around and saw him: Death. A black shape in the darkness, the faint silhouette of a cowl.

“For fuck’s sake!” came an exasperated voice out of the hood. “Get out of the water.”

“Wh… what…?” Will took a step in the direction of the shadowy figure, straining to see. But the moon was covered by a rag of cloud, and the gloom was impenetrable. “Dick…?”

“Dick?” The cloaked figure snorted. “I sincerely hope you’re not expecting _him._ Sure, he’s got pretty blue eyes, but isn’t he an 'ignorant oaf'?”

Heart thudding in his chest, Will whispered, “Who are you?”

“Your fucking saviour.” The figure laughed, a raucous sound that bespoke late nights, large amounts of sack, and frequent singing. “Poetic justice, if ever there was such a thing. I suppose I am to blame for some of it… all that smoking and drinking. You’ll need to cut down if you’re going to get out of this god-awful slump. I mean, _The Two Noble Kinsmen_? That was even worse than your _Gentlemen._ Granted, I only heard it in fucking Italian, but seriously, Will. You can do better, even at your age.”

The world turned upside down. Will gripped the bough tighter, afraid that if he didn’t hold on, he would fall. Everything he knew for true was unravelling. That voice…

But it couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

At that moment, the moon broke free of its wispy prison and bathed the clearing in dazzling light. The figure in the cowl pushed his hood back, and Will’s heart exploded in his chest. Those brown eyes, that shaggy hair, the soft lines of his face…

“K…”

“Yes, now you’re on the right track.” Furrowed but still handsome, the face in front of him broke into a dewy smile. “Jesus, Will. A man can’t come back to his long lost lover without sending him running for the river?”

Will’s feet slipped in the mud as he scrambled up from the yawning jaws of the Avon. “Kit…?”

The man who couldn’t be Kit, not in any universe whatsoever, held out his arms, and Will stumbled into his embrace. The cloak closed around both of them, and a cold leather jerkin pressed against his chest. “You’re dead,” he whispered, but the presence felt so real, and the scent of skin and smoke and travel was too near, too here, to deny. Confusion closed on his throat. What angels of death had the Shepherd bribed? Could the ferryman buckle under the sweet persuasion of a mortal wordsmith? Were the gates of Hades open to argument?

“Puppy,” came the hot whisper against his ear, as he was crushed in arms that felt so like Kit’s he never wanted to wake up. “I’m so sorry.”

“How can you…? How can…?”

“Hush. I’ll explain. Please, puppy, don’t cry.”

He was crying? Will drew a shuddering breath and pulled away. Numb with cold, he stared into those shining eyes, those all-knowing, soul-deep windows to another dimension, and in them, he saw the faint reflection of himself. But when he opened his mouth to speak, what came out was, “I hate you. I hate you so fucking much. Twenty-three _years_ , Kit…”

Kit tried to pull him closer, but Will held back, breath whistling through a throat that was growing too narrow. “I’m so sorry,” Kit said hoarsely. “It was the only way.”

“But how can you just… like this… turn up, and… I was dying!”

“I thought you understood when Dick gave you those pap–”

Choking, Will swung a desperate fist. It connected with Kit’s jaw and he stumbled back. Frowning for a split second, he lunged at Will and they fell to the ground, rolling down the bank in a tangle of arms and legs. Sharp gravel scratched Will’s naked skin, and he stubbed his toe against a rock, but he was only aware of punching Kit in the chest, of trying to throttle him, of their bodies battling each other. Not until he ended up on his back with Kit above him and the edge of the bank under his back did he stop. His lungs heaved, and his joints ached, and yet he couldn’t remember ever feeling so alive before.

Kit leaned over him, panting. “I had to go away, and I couldn’t take you with me. They wouldn’t let me.”

Fury surging again, Will yelled into his face, “You didn’t even write!”

“Are you fucking crazy?” Kit shouted back at him. “Have you learned nothing at all about how this fucking country works? They would have known.”

“You could have used a pseudonym!” But even as he screamed it, Will knew it wasn’t true. The Crown’s spies had ways of knowing everything, even the unknowable. Voice faltering, he forced out, “You could have told me…”

Kit slumped on top of him, rested his head on his chest. “It was Poley’s idea. I didn’t even know before I came to Deptford.”

Will refused to raise a hand to Kit’s head, to run his fingers through that unruly mane. “You were there.”

“Yes.”

“You died.”

“No. Not me.”

“But someone did.”

“Someone did. Yes. A poor player, with his exits and his entrances. He had it coming.”

Will’s stared up at the star-sprinkled sky. “Twenty-three years,” he whispered. His anger was dissipating, and so was his shock. In their place came an overpowering weakness. A grief so big it must shatter him. “When you were gone before… when you went on all those trips… it was always just for a few months.”

“Yes. But this time people had to believe I was really dead.”

Will’s eyes stung and filled. “I believed it.”

Face dark with anguish, Kit reached up and pressed cool lips against Will’s mouth. “And so did Oxford,” he whispered against his mouth.

“Oxford?” Will croaked out, confused.

Kit looked down at him. “Edward de Vere.”

Will shook his head. He didn’t understand. Didn’t understand anything.

Kit stroked Will’s cheek, looking at him as if he was afraid that he would disappear. “Turned out he wasn’t as easily allayed as I thought. Turned out our little stunt at his house wasn’t viewed as a harmless prank. He wanted blood, and he got it.”

“Blood? For…”

“For robbing him. For knowing.”

Retroactive goose bumps raced down Will’s arms. “But I knew, too.”

“Yes. But you can keep your mouth shut. It’s your biggest talent, Will.”

Will went cold. “And you can’t.”

“No. And believe me, I wouldn’t have. I didn’t. Which was when the whole…” Kit looked away, shaking his head where words failed him.

“But they… you… they put you in the Tower.”

“A slap on the wrist. She was fed up with my meddling. Didn’t want Oxford’s activities to get out.”

“She _approved_?”

Sighing, Kit rolled off him. “Not as such. She frowned on it, but you know. There was just too much money involved. So sometimes she looked the other way. Still, it wouldn’t have looked good if Oxford was convicted again. So they banged me up a little and let me go in return for a promise to shut up. Gullible fools. Now, Edward de Vere on the other hand… he wasn’t that easy to convince. He would have stopped at nothing to silence me. If it wasn’t for Poley, I’d be dead for real.”

Will was quiet for a while, trying to let it all sink in. But his whole being was too wracked with grief and fear and, somewhere at the edge of his consciousness, a panicked feeling that almost felt like a nauseous kind of joy. No, not joy – something else. Something without a name, because he couldn’t be happy. He could never again be _happy._ His whole life had been taken from him, the life he had been supposed to live. “I always thought it was Walsingham who killed you,” he said finally.

“Walsingham?” There was genuine surprise in Kit’s voice.

“That he was insanely jealous, and that he got his revenge when that servant of his plunged a dagger through your eye.”

Kit propped himself up his elbow, brushed Will’s hair from his face. “No one plunged a dagger through my eye.”

“I know. Now.”

So it had just been another sham. A performance staged by the big players of the land, and the man who’d died was just another actor. It was too much to take in. Once again, grief surged up in him like a flood. Grief for all that wasted time, for every single day he’d spent, thinking Kit was gone forever.

“But Oxford…” he gasped, and it turned into a sob. “He died years ago. You could have come back _years_ ago.”

Kit leaned down to caress Will’s face with his nose, to kiss it. It felt like a plea for forgiveness. “I was in prison for a while,” he whispered. “In Italy.”

Will fought to control his breathing. “For what?”

“What do you think?” Kit flashed a brittle-looking grin. “Blasphemy, fighting, the usual.”

“Sodomy?”

At once, Kit turned serious. “No. Never. Not since you.”

 _Liar._ Pushing him away, Will sat up. “I don’t believe you. You’re the epitome of lust. You must have had your fun.”

Kit grabbed his hair, brought their foreheads together. “Puppy, I’m telling you. Not since you.” He breathed in. Hesitated. “Actually, I… what I really did was to…” He let go of Will’s hair. “I freed this group of children that were supposed to…” He spread his hands. “You know.”

Will’s chest was trembling now, as if shaken by an inner gale. “I… I love you, Kit. And I hate you. I can’t…”

At once, Kit leaned close again, and through the haze of his turmoil, Will felt the ground once more come up to cradle his back. He still couldn’t bring himself to believe it – not any of it – but as the warmth from Kit’s body seeped into his naked skin, he suddenly didn’t care. All he cared about was now. Grabbing Kit’s hair, he yanked his head down to crush his mouth with his hunger. If this wasn’t real, at least he would make damn sure it felt like it.

Kit whimpered in pain. His hands bunched in Will’s shirt, and his breathing turned laboured as he struggled to return the kiss. Not just return it – he was deepening it, forcing Will’s mouth open with his lips to thrust his tongue inside. The reality of it assaulted Will’s senses like a wave crashing down on his defenceless body.

They were here. It was real. Kit was back.

Kit was back!

He was vaguely aware of a hand fumbling between them, undoing the points of Kit’s codpiece, pulling out a cock that was hardening by the second. _It’ll be too quick_ , Will’s brain tried to warn him, but he slapped the thought aside. So what if they didn’t have anything to ease the way but spit? He didn’t care. He had been ready to die just a few minutes ago, and now he had been snatched from the brink by a miracle. Whatever Kit wanted to do, Will would let him. If he wished to slit his throat, Will would offer it up without a second thought.

Before he was even finished thinking it, Kit had hooked his arms in Will’s legs and pushed them up to his chest. Gasping to be so exposed, Will felt something big and round nudging his opening. It was tight and reluctant, years of celibacy having reduced him to a virgin again, but Kit wasn’t so easily deterred. Rocking his hips in small, determined movements, he pressed inside. The intrusion burned like hellfire, and Will bit his lip to displace the pain. As if to distract him, a hand came down to grip his cock. “ _If I profane with my unworthiest hand_ ,” Kit whispered in Will’s ear, and then he squeezed. Will’s stomach muscles clenched, and the sudden motion made Kit plunge inside. Just like that.

And then: the pain. Like a kind of after-thought, it ripped through Will and set his whole body on fire. Whispering soothing nothings, Kit kissed his lips, his cheeks, his forehead. Will tried to breathe, to tell him that he was alright, but all that came out was a croaking, ugly sob. Pulling out slowly, carefully, Kit coated himself with another layer of saliva and then pushed inside again, making them both cry out. Tears spilled from the corners of Will’s eyes, but now he felt it: the honeyed tingle deep inside of him. The touching of souls.

Within moments, the burning turned into a dull ache, and Will could breathe again. Wrapping his legs around Kit’s waist – the body-memory still fresh after half a lifetime – he gave himself up to the sure, repetitive motion of Kit’s cock moving into him, claiming him. He didn’t know what was pain and what was pleasure, but in the end, it didn’t matter. His mind disintegrated into warm and vibrant colours as Kit filled him again and again. He never wanted it to end, but a final thrust ejected him into space, and he was lost for eons.

When he came to again, Kit had thrown his head back and opened his mouth, but there was no sound, only a momentary glitch in the fabric of reality. Holding his breath, Will drank in the perfection of that lion-like mane, falling in soft waves over Kit’s naked shoulders. He was an old man now, but he had lost none of his beauty. The lines in his face traced the life he had lived, one that Will hadn’t been allowed to share. If it took the rest of his life, he would learn those paths by heart.

_The rest of my life…_

After a couple of hour-long moments, Kit slowly opened his eyes and looked down at him. His hair slipped from his shoulders to hang swaying between them, framing his face as he tried to find his breathing, his voice. Reality was put back together. The grass scratched Will’s back and there was an itch on his thigh. Kit’s softening cock slipped out of him, together with a seeping warmth that stung the tiny tears in his skin down there.

Suddenly overcome with something akin to relief, Will collapsed into giggles. At first Kit tensed, uncertain, but then he joined in, leaning his head on Will’s chest and shaking with laughter. As Will’s giggles threatened to morph into sobs again, he forced them down with a hard swallow. _Don’t ever leave me again_ , he tried to say, but the sounds just wouldn’t form. Instead he just lay there, feeling Kit’s heavy head on his chest and smelling his sweat until the cold had him shivering.

“So… now what? I just left a suicide letter.”

Kit trailed a warm hand down Will’s side. “Well then,” he murmured into his neck. “We’ll both be dead, and both live.”

Will tried to smile, but his lips only quivered in confusion. “Sounds like one of my plays.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” A trace of mockery came creeping back into Kit’s voice, and the sound of it made something shift inside Will. As if he could finally believe.

“So I’m more of a realistic writer than people think?” he said, hoping to cement the feeling with tentative banter.

Catching on, Kit scoffed. “Not really.” He sat up and stretched his arms above his head. “Besides, you can’t keep writing the same old thing over and over. I mean, if you’re going to be with me, you’ll have to step it up.”

On the surface, it was a jibe, but underneath it, something else – something so longed-for and belated that Will felt his chest constrict: a promise of forever. Sitting up beside Kit, he winced at the pain down there. But it was a good pain. It told him he was still alive.

“But…” he began, but had to stop and clear his throat of a sudden lump. “Where do we even go?”

Kit shrugged. “The world is a nutshell of infinite space. We can go anywhere – we’re ghosts.” He gazed into the dark distance. “No one cares what we do anymore. No one even knows we’re still here. Just imagine the poetry we’ll create, just for each other.” He glanced at Will and winked. “From what I’ve seen, you’ve become quite good while I was away.”

Will grabbed his hair and shook his head. “Quite good? _Quite good_? I’ll show you quite good.”

“What?” Kit laughed, squirming out of Will’s grip. “I always said you were talented… for a country lad.”

Will lunged at him, attempted to wrestle him to the ground. “I laid London at my feet,” he yelled in mock anger. “I’m a household name now, where playwrights used to be nobodies!”

Laughing as he fought him off, Kit struggled to his feet. Then he languidly pulled up his hose, tied the point on his codpiece, and brushed the dirt from his shirt. When he was quite finished, he tossed his hair back and held out a hand for Will to take. “Don’t you get cocky with me, pup,” he smirked. “Remember who you learned it all from.”

  
  


_Exeunt_


End file.
